


the arrows beyond you

by toromeo (ald0us)



Category: Shadowhunters (TV), The Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: F/F, M/M, izzy and jonathan are (platonic) parabatai, mention of past torture, somewhat graphic description of present torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-03-13 06:15:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 82,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13564587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ald0us/pseuds/toromeo
Summary: Isabelle didn't choose Jonathan as herparabataibecause he was kind. She chose him because when she burned down the old, stupid rules of the Clave and killed more demons than any other shadowhunter alive, she wanted to do it with him at her side.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **This is part of a WIP I started a while ago and may not finish** , so if you do choose to read please keep this in mind, and enjoy! Mostly based on show canon with some things taken from the books, and basically just a self-indulgent retelling of what I'd wished the story looked like. (As such, everyone is 18+ except Max, who is 9).

“I hate him,” Izzy declared, flopping down on her bed and snagging one of Jonathan’s sweaters off the floor to throw over her face. “I will never, ever, ever even look at Meliorn ever again. And if I do, it’ll be to decapitate him and write lying bastard on his forehead in Sharpie.”  
  
Jonathan looked sympathetic, even if the corners of his mouth were curling traitorously upwards. “I thought the Fair Folk can’t lie.”  
  
Izzy rolled her eyes, flinging the sweater off with a dramatic flourish. “Lie, mislead, strongly imply falsehood, same difference. I never expected us to be exclusive or anything but I _did_ expect him not to go and fuck all my exes after I _accidentally_ used up his favorite eyeshadow pallet.”  
  
Jonathan was putting in significant effort to look serious. “That’s a pretty drastic move over eyeshadow.”  
  
Izzy sighed. “Okay, it wasn’t just eyeshadow. And I did do it on purpose, and it’s discontinued at Sephora, and he’s been using it for over a decade. We had a fight and I got pissed off, we both said some stupid shit about ruining each other’s careers, and I kidnapped the eyeshadow and wrote he was an asshole with second-rate fashion sense with lipstick on his mirror, and he fucked my exes to get back at me, and when I confronted him about it he had the audacity to dance around it saying he had the _utmost respect for me_ and that _passion carries one on unpredictable tides_ which is bullshit because I know he did it to piss me off.”  
  
“Prepare the guillotine,” Jonathan agreed, mouth pulled down in a serious frown.  
  
Izzy hit him with a pillow. “You’re supposed to be on my side!”  
  
The truth of it was, Izzy knew if a boy or a girl really hurt her Jonathan would gladly help her hunt them down and hold them to a chair while she got even. Though, his solutions to these events tended to be a bit more nonviolent. After her first real bad breakup, he showed up at her door with cookie dough and her old, bootleg copy of _Mean Girls_ , which had made her laugh so hard she cried. She’d eaten the cookie dough raw and cried all the way through the movie, even if she had to explain all the jokes to him. Apparently the sheer comedic value of “ _boo, you whore_ ” was beyond him.  
  
Izzy groaned, rolling over and throwing her phone on her pillow. “It was a dick move,” she said. “And I can’t do the same to get back at him, because he never talks about his exes.”  
  
“Secretive,” Jonathan commented, picking at a cluster of sequins on her coverlet. “Maybe they’re all dwarves, and he doesn’t want you to know he has a hairy foot fetish.”  
  
Izzy snorted with laughter, despite herself. “Since when do you even know what a foot fetish is?”  
  
Jonathan looked wounded. “I’m oblivious, not dead.”  
  
“Ten bucks says Alec doesn’t know.”  
  
“He’s Jace’s _parabatai_. He knows.”  
  
“Are you implying my brother has a foot fetish?” Izzy said, putting a scandalized tone to her voice.  
  
Jonathan grinned. “Not necessarily.”  
  
At that moment the door burst open and Jace tumbled in, self-sure grin on his face. His hair was annoyingly artfully tousled, and his leather jacket was slung over his shoulders. “Did someone say foot fetish?”  
  
“No, we said ‘pain in the ass,’ and yes, we were talking about you,” Izzy snapped. “Get out, go bother Alec.”  
  
“Wouldn’t want to interrupt girl time,” Jace said, then turned his smirk to Jonathan. “No offense.”  
  
Jonathan didn’t reply, carefully quiet as he always was around Jace. He’d never really talked about Jace with her, but Izzy had a few guesses why. First, Jace was pretty much insufferable these days since it had been suggested by the Clave that he had special powers outside the norms for nephilim. Second, Jonathan had never really warmed up to anyone in the family except herself—he was shy, shyer than Alec, who would warm up to you eventually after a few glasses of wine and if you agreed with him that archery was severely underrated. Or if you were a pretty boy. Either worked.  
  
Third, Izzy thought a little bitterly, Jace had been adopted into the Lightwood family, because he was a Wayland. Jonathan—thought by many, her parents included, to be a Morgenstern, Valentine’s son—was not, brought up more by Hodge and the Institute itself than her parents.  
  
A mop of brown hair and bright, curious eyes emerged from behind the door. “What’s a foot fetish?”  
  
“Max!” Izzy exclaimed, throwing Jace a furious look. “What are you doing here?”  
  
“I was following Jace,” Max said. “I’m going to be just like him when I grow up. Aren’t I, Jace?”  
  
“Of course you are,” Jace said, with such confidence and pride that Izzy’s annoyance with him slipped somewhat. “You’re already a fantastic shadowhunter. Top of his class,” he added proudly, as if his sister didn’t know.  
  
“But I wanna use a whip like Izzy,” Max said. “She can use all the cool weapons. Plain ol seraph swords are boring.”  
  
Izzy gave a superior look to all attending. “Hear that? I’m cooler than you all.”  
  
“Swords are not boring!” Jace exclaimed, sounding wounded. “Just ask Jonathan, he uses a sword.”  
  
Max looked skeptically at Jonathan. “People from my class say he has demon blood.”  
  
“What?” Izzy demanded, much more loudly than intended. She was defensive of Jonathan, she knew, mostly because he didn’t often defend himself. Also, he was her _parabatai_ , the one she’d chosen over everyone else in the world to be her brother in arms. “Max, who told you that?”  
  
Max shrugged, looking at once unembarrassed and apologetic. “My friend Daniel Harkhaven.”  
  
“Well, your friend Daniel is wrong,” Izzy snapped.  
  
“It’s impossible for nephilim to have pure demon blood,” Jace told Max, a bit more gently. “All known cases of shadowhunter and demon parents were stillborn.”  
  
“Okay,” said Max, and he didn’t sound convinced enough. “Well it would be cool if he did. I mean, what if you could like, control demons and stuff? Or like, run super fast like Naruto!”  
  
Jace snorted, possibly at the reference to Naruto, which he was patently too cool for. “I’m pretty sure Jonathan’s only superpower is making no noise and pretending he doesn’t exist.”  
  
Izzy scowled. “Jace, I’ve only told you this forty-five times this week so maybe your tiny brain has forgotten it, but you’re an asshole.”  
  
“Seconded,” Alec said, leaning into the doorframe and peering inside the room. “Hey, Max.”  
  
“Hey Alec,” Max said brightly.  
  
Jace shrugged. He really hadn’t been like this before the past few weeks—he certainly hadn’t said these sorts of things out loud, anyways. “I just don’t get what the big deal is about him being a Morgenstern and all that,” he said. “Even if he is, he’s nowhere near as powerful as Valentine was. So who cares?”  
  
“ _Jace_!” Izzy was nearly yelling now. “I told you to get out twenty minutes ago. This is _my room_!”  
  
“It’s all right,” Jonathan said, surprising everyone, even Alec. “He isn’t wrong.”  
  
Izzy turned a glare of daggers on him, as if he were a traitor to his own cause.  
  
“See?” Jace said, with a small yawn. “He agrees with me. I’m just saying the Clave shouldn’t care so much about blood. He’s not a threat.”  
  
“I don’t care,” Izzy said archly. “It’s my room, and you’re annoying me. So get out before I tell mom you’re interrupting my studies.”  
  
“Fine, you two are boring anyway,” Jace said. “C’mon, Max. You wanna see the weapons room?”  
  
“Yeah!” Max exclaimed. “Can I try Alec’s bow? It’s so much better than mine.”  
  
Alec pulled Izzy’s door shut with an apologetic grimace, off to follow his brothers.  
  
“ _Anyway_ ,” Izzy said, with labored emphasis. “Enough of Meliorn and his lying, two-faced ass. “What about you? Any cute girls? Boys?”  
  
Jonathan gave her a look. He usually relaxed back into himself instantly once people were gone, and it was just the two of them; now he looked just as tense as before. “Guess.”  
  
“Jonathan. You can’t let Jace talk to you like that.” She did her best not to sound scolding, and probably failed. “The Clave doesn’t even know for sure you’re a Morgenstern, and even if you are, it doesn’t mean anything.”  
  
Jonathan’s eyes did not meet hers, dark as coal. “He was right about everything he said, and everything he didn’t say aloud. I just hate to hear it from him.”  
  
The truth of it was, Jonathan was not the best shadowhunter. He was a brilliant sparring partner, a competent team member, trained almost as hard as Izzy herself, and excelled almost effortlessly in any aspect of shadowhunting not related to the field, but was consistently average in field exams. Izzy had grilled him about it at length when they were younger, and he had finally told her he got nervous during the exams.  
  
“I don’t like them watching,” he’d said, and had looked so wretched Izzy had resolved not to bring it up again. But it was frustrating knowing the stronger, more brilliant side of him that he refused to show the rest of the world. Or couldn’t. She tried very hard not to resent it. But she wished, just once, Jonathan would fight as he did when they sparred together, alone, so relaxed he was almost casual. Once, when he seemed so far away his eyes seemed almost empty, he’d managed to disarm her with a flick of his wrist so quick it seemed almost nonchalant. He had then proceeded to apologize profusely, assuring her it had been a complete accident, and at any rate it had never happened again.  
  
So it seemed cruel for a shadowhunter as powerful as Jace to make fun of him, and even though he had no way of knowing Jonathan wasn’t as mediocre as he was in group training sessions, it still made Izzy furious. At both of them.  
  
“Well, I don’t like hearing any of it either,” Izzy said crossly. “You’re my _parabatai_ , and I won’t have Jace disrespect you.”  
  
Her parents had absolutely forbidden her from taking him as her _parabatai_ , and had fought her tooth and nail along the way. Even now, she was not sure she had their blessing.  
  
“There are things you don’t know,” her mother had said, more angry and bitter and...afraid than Izzy had ever heard her. “Isabelle, please, don’t associate yourself with that boy.”  
  
But Izzy knew all she needed to about Jonathan. He had been angry, like her. Locked away in a room under lock and key. At first, when she’d first snuck in to bring the strange new boy sweets she’d spirited away from some mundane store, he had not spoken at all, just stared at her with big, black eyes. Aided and abetted by Alec and Jace, she brought him little sandwiches, poorly made with a child’s hands, fruit, anything she could take.  
  
“Who is your family?” she’d asked.  
  
He hadn’t answered, just eaten the fruit as if she’d brought him the food of gods. Eventually they’d caught her sneaking into the room, and Jace and Alec distracting the patrol assigned outside the room, and all three had thrown such furious tantrums the adults finally caved and allowed Jonathan outside into the Institute. Izzy later learned that this had less to do with her, Jace, and Alec’s tears and more to do with her parents and others telling the Clave that putting an eight year old in solitary confinement was cruel and not befitting fellow nephilim.  
  
Little by little he was treated more equally—allowed to go unsupervised, allowed his own things, finally allowed to train with Izzy, Jace, and Alec. But he had never thanked the adults for these things, just glared at them all with a black, muted hatred that resonated with Izzy more deeply than anyone else had.  
  
But as Izzy discovered boys—and, implicit in that, new ways to torment her parents—and became a loud, powerful shadowhunter in her own right, Jonathan became quiet, shy, more anxious to follow the rules than even Alec. Privately, she’d resented it. Sure, Jonathan was kind. But she hadn’t chosen him as her _parabatai_ for that. She’d chosen him because when she burned down the old, stupid rules of the Clave and killed more demons than any other shadowhunter alive, she wanted to do it with him at her side.  
  
“Izzy? Isabelle? Earth to Isabelle.”  
  
Izzy started, her bitter reverie scattering like a flock of birds. “What?”  
  
Jonathan gave her an easy smile, unassuming and kind like always. It made her feel profoundly guilty. Who was she to resent who he had grown up to be? “Jace texted. He says to get to the incident room, now.”  
  
Excitement thrilled through Izzy like a live current. “Gear up,” she said, already grabbing her boots and thermal top off the floor. “We’re going with them. I don’t care if we have to fight our way out of here.”  
  
Jonathan disappeared and reappeared seconds later, seraph blade strapped to his thigh. Even though he was just as messy as Izzy was, he somehow managed to be always prepared for everything. That was one thing she did envy. “Ready?”  
  
Izzy grinned, re-arranging her whip on her wrist. “Readier than ever.”  
  
  
  
  
“Absolutely not,” Jace said loudly, planting himself firmly in the center of the room. “If Izzy stays, Alec and I stay, and if you want to bench your best students with all the adult shadowhunters in other corners of the island, be my guest.”  
  
Some, Izzy definitely included, would consider this arrogant, Alec knew. But Jace spoke the Clave’s language. They wouldn’t be swayed with arguments like _fair_ and _just as strong_ and _we need her._ The Clave operated like clockwork, with all the feeling and compassion that entailed. It was the clockwork that ticked in every shadowhunter’s blood, Alec’s included. But not Jace’s. He would defy any rule, go to any length for someone he cared for. Alec was very glad he was not like this, but sometimes he couldn’t help but admire it. And the results.  
  
“Very well,” Hodge said, lips thinning with disapproval. Hodge was more conservative than the average shadowhunter, Alec knew, probably because he was older and got out less than everyone else. But the Clave itself was far more so than Hodge, and he would likely get shit for it among some once it was found out he’d let a girl student on a mission like this. “You, Mr. Lightwood, and Miss. Lightwood will attend to the mission.”  
  
“And Jonathan,” Izzy’s voice cracked out like her whip. She herself appeared seconds later, in full gear and her hair drawn into a tight knot at the crown of her head. Jonathan followed her at some distance, shoulders drawn in and eyes on his feet as if he might avoid being seen at all. Alec could relate, even if he didn’t see what Jonathan had to hide.  
  
Hodge sighed. “Miss. Lightwood.”  
  
“Jonathan’s my _parabatai_ ,” Izzy said, in the tone Alec generally referred to as ‘bossy.’ “It’s not fair to me to expect me to fight without him. And it’ll put a strain on Alec and Jace to watch my back when they should be free to fight together.”  
  
“Mr. Lightwood, I don’t suppose you care to talk some sense into your brother and sister?”  
  
Alec started, surprised to be addressed directly. “Izzy, it’s dangerous,” he said. “You’re lucky to be coming at all—“  
  
Izzy’s eyes flashed dangerously and Alec suddenly realized he’d made an error.  
  
“On second thought,” Jace said quickly, “it seems things are quite out of our hands. I need Izzy, and Izzy needs Jonathan, and the Clave needs us out there five minutes ago. So why are we arguing?”  
  
Hodge took on an expression that suggested throwing up his hands in despair. “Very well,” he said. “You have your orders.”  
  
Jace grinned and relief swept through Alec in a palpable wave. Izzy stalked past Hodge without a word, Jonathan silent in her wake. Alec tried to catch his eye but he remained cold and impassive as always.  
  
“Let’s go kick some demon ass,” Jace said, grinning like a maniac.  
  
  
  
  
“I hate the rain,” Izzy complained. “It makes my hair frizzy.”  
  
Jonathan muttered something Alec didn’t catch and she laughed, loud and bright. Alec rarely made Izzy laugh. It seemed like she spent all her time with Jonathan, anyway. If it hadn’t been strictly against Clave rules to date your parabatai, Alec would have thought they were dating.  
  
_Must be nice,_ he thought bitterly, watching Jace’s blue-brown eyes scan the streets for any sign of movement. Like a hawk, or some other bird of prey.  
  
Sometimes, Alec wished he could ask Jonathan how he did it. Be so impassive, cold, caring about nothing except Izzy. Ignore the barbs Jace and everyone else sent his way. Alec was quite sure you could tell him to his face he was a weak baby and his mother was a hamster and he wouldn’t react. Granted, Alec wasn’t sure he could react to that particular insult without laughing. But the point stood, even if Alec wasn’t great at summoning insults to make it. Alec could barely weather a microsecond of silent disappointment from his father, or Jace, or Hodge, or anyone, without wanting to shrivel up and die.  
  
“Guys,” Izzy said warningly, holding her pulsing locket in her hand. “I think we found them.”  
  
They’d been dispatched to check out a demon sighting reported around the area. Nothing too exciting or dangerous—a few meddlesome, weak ones that pestered mundanes but rarely did lethal harm.  
  
“All right,” Jace said, looking resplendent, seraph blade igniting in his hand. “Let’s get ‘em.”  
  
Alec drew his bow, followed by the crack of Izzy’s whip.  
  
“Alec, cover me,” Jace said, then bounded into the alleyway. One of the demons hissed; a flash of Jace’s blade and it vanished. Izzy, not to be outdone, started forward, whip singing like fire. Alec losed a few arrows, thinning the flock, herding them away from Jace’s flank.  
  
A flash of light caught Alec’s eye and he hardly had a moment to shout out a warning before a portal opened and something behemoth shuddered into existence. Jace reared back but too late; the new demon lashed out and Jace was sent flying into what looked like a brick wall and lay still on the concrete.  
  
“Jace!” Alec screamed, already firing on reflex. Each of his arrows struck a vital place in a demon’s body, over and over, but this one was impervious—a greater demon. Something like fear uncoiled in Alec’s gut—no ordinary demon could kill Jace, but a greater demon could.  
  
A flash and shouts—Izzy hacked away at its semi-incorporeal form. Nothing they were doing had any effect, and Jace was in danger. Alec wracked his brain—it wasn’t a prince of hell, but clearly a powerful demon, but which one? There were hundred, thousands, all with their own weaknesses and methods of dispatch.  
  
 Then suddenly a sea of black goo spewed from the demon’s roaring mouth, splattering Alec and everything else in what looked like a fifty-foot radius. At first it just felt wet, sticky, so he kept firing, but then the bow dropped from his hands, his limbs heavy as if weighed down by rocks.  
  
_Jace_ , he thought as he dropped to the slicked concrete. _Izzy_.  
  
  
  
  
Izzy had leapt behind a dumpster but still some of the demon’s ichor had gotten on her skin, her clothes. She felt heavy, her vision slurring; her whip was somewhere she could not see. The demon—she had to get it back, get back up, keep fighting—  
  
A blaze of light lit the alleyway and Izzy could scarcely believe her eyes. Jonathan stood in the alleyway, covered head to toe in demon poison, seraph blade unwavering in his hand. He looked angry but so impossibly small against the size of the demon, towering some stories high like a behemoth.  
  
“ _Do you challenge me, son of Lilith_?” the demon roared, the words less sounds than thoughts blasting her thoughts raw.  
  
If Jonathan said anything in reply, she didn’t hear it. Then he _moved_ , with such incredible speed and grace he seemed more vampire than nephilim. The seraph blade slashed as writhing tendrils of dark surrounded him. The way he moved he seemed less impulsive than choreographed, as if he’d rehearsed this dance a thousand times and knew it all by heart.  
  
As he sprinted towards the demon and leapt into the air she thought _he’s like Jace_ but as if with years more training. Izzy shook off the poison, scraping it off her skin with clumsy movements as Jonathan drove his blade into the demon’s form. This time it stuck and the demon roared, though it clearly wasn’t even injured, swiping at him with what seemed like a thousand tendrils.  
  
Izzy grabbed at her whip, glittering in the gutter, then pushed herself shakily to her feet. Jonathan struggled to hold onto his blade, pulled at in every direction. She could feel his strength waning through their bond, and the sensation sent a thrill of adrenaline singing through her veins.  
  
She stumbled forwards and swung her whip with all her strength, carving free a whole swath of the demon’s body. Strength surged through their bond and with a few more wild swings Jonathan was free, springing off the hilt of his blade and surging through the mass of writhing tendrils. Then suddenly he halted.  
  
The demon roared as he plunged his hand—not his blade—into its chest. The roar turned to a scream, a horrible, siren sound that pierced Izzy’s ears and lanced through her skull like a physical blow.  
  
Then Jonathan ripped his hand free and the scream turned to a keen, an eldritch, horrible sound that shortened her breath and thrilled her blood. Then the demon exploded, tendrils of darkness ripping free and vanishing into the air. Jonathan’s seraph blade, no longer lit, clattered to the concrete.  
  
Jonathan himself lay next to it, stirring already. Izzy grabbed his blade and held it out, neither towards him or at him. Her legs still trembled but her grip on the blade did not.  
  
“Izzy,” he breathed, and for a second she caught a glimpse of the Jonathan she knew. Then it was gone. “The demon heart—I need my blade to pierce it.”  
  
She made no move to give it to him. “I’ll end it.”  
  
He made no argument, holding the writhing, dark mass out to her. Demon blood sizzled on his skin, all over his body, but he hardly seemed to notice. Izzy pulled back and drove the blade solidly into the center of the heart. A last, horrible squeal, and it was gone.  
  
“Izzy, are you all right?” Concern was thick in his voice, his dark eyes still wild. “You were right by it when it spewed out that poison—“  
  
“I’m fine.” Izzy was distantly pleased to hear her voice barely shook. “Jonathan that’s—what you did that’s—it’s impossible.”  
  
Jonathan gave her a strange, almost strained smile. “Izzy, I don’t know what you saw, but—“  
  
“Don’t,” Izzy said. “I know what I saw. You killed a greater demon with your bare hands. The poison barely affected you—the demon’s blood too. Jonathan I’ve—I’ve never seen anyone move like that—“  
  
“You can’t tell the Clave.” His voice was taut, like Alec’s bowstring pulled too tight. “Izzy, please, promise me whatever you do you won’t tell them what happened—say you killed it or Jace did but you can’t tell them I had anything to do with it, Izzy please—“  
  
“I don’t understand,” Izzy said. Something akin to panic or betrayal was bubbling in her gut, tightening her hand around the blade. “Jonathan, what’s going on—?”  
  
“Jace and Alec are hurt,” Jonathan interjected quickly. “Izzy, I promise you I’ll...I’ll tell you what you want to know later, but we must make sure they’re alright, and you must promise you won’t tell—“  
  
Izzy’s mind whirled. “I can’t promise that.”  
  
Jonathan was even more pale than usual. “Jace and Alec,” he said. “After we know they’re okay, we’ll talk.”  
  
  
  
  
“Izzy killed it,” Jonathan said, his voice still unusually soft. Jace wanted to yell at him to speak normally, but he ( _Izzy_ ) had saved his and Alec’s life, so it seemed rude. “We were ambushed.”  
  
Hodge’s flyaway eyebrows were in danger of merging with his hairline. “Miss Lightwood?”  
  
“I did.” Izzy’s voice was rock-solid, her gaze level and steely. “I recognized the Advar subspecies of the greater demon and recalled your lecture on how to banish it. A blade to the heart was sufficient.”  
  
Hodge blinked, as if Izzy had just told him she’d seen Lilith herself on the street and killed her with a toothpick. “Why that’s very...impressive, Miss Lightwood. And you all were unharmed?”  
  
“Nothing an _iratze_ couldn’t fix,” Jace said stubbornly. He felt horrible that he’d left a greater demon just to Izzy and Jonathan alone, but he was deeply impressed they’d handled it.  
  
Alec was quiet, fidgeting with the sleeves of his shirt and gazing intently at his shoes.  
  
“I’ll debrief you later,” Hodge said, his gaze lingering on Izzy as if he suspected her of lying somehow. It made Jace’s blood boil. Alec knocked his elbow as he opened his mouth to say something possibly rude, and he thought better of it. “Dismissed.”  
  
Jace turned to Izzy, but her attention was solely on Jonathan. She didn’t look happy. In fact, she looked pissed off, more pissed off than he’d ever seen her. She grabbed his wrist like a viper swiping up its prey and yanked him off in her wake, before Jace could even try to thank her.  
  
“Someone’s in trouble,” Alec observed.  
  
“No kidding,” Jace said. Jonathan never seemed to have enough personality to incur that kind of wrath. “Maybe he made out with her boyfriend or something.”  
  
Alec made a spluttering sound. “But that would be—“  
  
Jace shrugged. “I need a shower. Spar in twenty?”  
  
“Uh huh,” Alec said, still looking a bit funny. “Sure.”  
  
  
  
  
Izzy pushed Jonathan none-too-gently through his bedroom door, slamming it shut behind them. Like hers, clothes were strewn everywhere, books and papers and even weapons tossed haphazardly on every surface. Some things seemed to have their own idiosyncratic order, such as his half-open sock drawer, where all the socks were paired. “All right. I lied for you. So tell me what in the name of the Angel is going on.”  
  
Jonathan hadn’t met her eyes since they’d entered the Institute, but his shoulders set back and looked at her directly. “Valentine was my father.” he said, as if stating a fact about the Adar demon subspecies. “And I have pure demon blood.”  
  
Izzy stared. “What?”  
  
“You said what I did was impossible. The demon blood makes it possible.”  
  
 “That doesn’t make sense,” she said sharply. “Demon blood produces stillborn shadowhunters. And—Valentine, why didn’t you tell me before—?”  
  
“He injected the blood before I was born,” Jonathan interrupted, dispassionately. “Or so he told me. Obviously, I don’t recall.”  
  
Izzy stared at him, mind whirring at impossible speeds. “The greater demon called you a child of Lilith. Is that why?”  
  
Jonathan nodded.  
  
“And you’ve been able to do...that this whole time?”  
  
Jonathan’s black eyes didn’t change. “Valentine trained me to kill anything.”  
  
“So you’ve been pretending this whole time?” Izzy’s voice was rising. Anger kindled in her chest, at herself and at him. “Why? I always knew you were better than you were around others but why? You could dance circles around me—you could dance circles around _Jace_. Why didn’t you tell me?”  
  
Jonathan gave a harsh, choked-sounding laugh. “The Clave would lock me up on the spot if they ever knew, if not kill me outright. As it is, the doubt about whether Valentine is my father is the only thing keeping me from a cell in the Silent City.”  
  
“I’m not talking about the Clave, I’m talking about me!” Izzy shouted. “I’m your _parabatai_. You’ve been my best friend since the moment we met, and it turns out I know _nothing_ about you.”  
  
“That’s not me,” Jonathan snapped. “I don’t want to be Valentine’s demon monster. I swore to myself to be ordinary—I only banished the demon to keep you and Jace and Alec safe.”  
  
“You didn’t tell me,” Izzy said, and there was an accusation in her words. “I’ve never lied to you, Jonathan. Never.”  
  
A muscle jumped in Jonathan’s jaw, but his expression hardly wavered. He met her gaze and said nothing, cold as a face of blank _adamas_.  
  
“Get out,” she said, not loudly. She’d never ordered him before, not like this.  
  
Jonathan did not point out it was his own room. He simply went past her to the door. A clatter of the lock, a soft sound as he closed it, and he was gone.  
  
Izzy sat down on Jonathan’s unmade bed. The sheets were black, the rumpled, fat comforter a dark grey—like her, he slept without a loose sheet and only with the fitted sheet. The fluffy pink photo frame she’d given him when she was thirteen sat at his bedside (Jace had mocked him endlessly for keeping something so girly). Their younger faces grinned out at her, Izzy with missing front teeth and acne and flyaway hair, Jonathan with a horrible bowl cut that made his silvery hair look like straw and a goofy half-smile.  
  
Izzy grabbed one of his favorite sweaters off the floor and hugged it fiercely. It smelled of laundry detergent, smoke, and Jonathan’s cologne, which he’d started wearing when Alec and Jace still wore Old Spice and Axe bodyspray respectively. She’d told them it was due to Jonathan’s superior European upbringing, which shamed them both into wearing increasingly awful concoctions until Robert took pity on them both and bought them matching cologne for their birthdays.  
  
How could he not see she didn’t _care_ what blood he had, or who his father was? He was still her brother, the brother that carried her up the stairs so she didn’t have to admit to anyone she twisted her ankle trying to wear six-inch heels. The same brother who was always there when she was sick, not to pester her while she was feverish but to bring her water and read her stories. The same brother who she’d cut through an army of demons to save, were he ever in danger.  
  
Yet if he were the same brother, the same Jonathan, why couldn't she shake the feeling that everything had changed?  
  
  
  
  
“Fuck,” Alec gasped. “Fuck, Jace, I can’t do another round.”  
  
Jace extended a hand, breathing hard himself, though he felt boundless, as if his energy was infinite. Alec took it; Jace pulled him upright. He was very red in the face, sweating profusely.  
  
“Don’t worry, you can whoop my ass at archery tomorrow,” Jace said cheerfully. He was pretty handy with a crossbow, but Alec was, as Jace liked to tell everyone who would listen, the best archer of his generation, if not ever.  
  
“Yeah,” said Alec, who didn’t look convinced. “Sure.”  
  
At that moment the door burst open and Jonathan burst through, jaw clenched so tightly it looked liable to break. “Are you still using the room?”  
  
Jace waved him in. “Alec and I were just finished. I could use another sparring partner.”  
  
Jonathan regarded him with uncharacteristic coldness. “I’d prefer to train alone.”  
  
Jace grinned brightly. “Don’t worry, Alec already took the fight out of me. You and Izzy already took down a greater demon—maybe you’ll finally stand a chance.”  
  
Unlike countless others, this barb did not deflect harmlessly off Jonathan’s abnormally thick skin. He regarded Jace with unusual dislike. “Is that so.”  
  
“I mean, Izzy isn’t here, but you might get lucky,” Jace said, spinning his blade easily in his hand. He felt boundless, as if he could take on an entire army; that restlessness found a target in Jonathan, who radiated anger like a furnace.  
  
“Jace,” Alec said lowly.  
  
It was too late for warning. In three abrupt steps Jonathan was at the weapons deposit, and fairly tore a hand-and-a-half sword off the wall. Without even pausing for a simple warm-up or a few katas he whirled on Jace, holding the blade easily in one hand as if it were a half-sword.  
  
Jonathan _moved_ and Jace hardly had time to swing his blade up to parry before Jonathan’s thundering overhead blow jarred his shoulder to the bone and swept his blade aside. Jace leapt back but Jonathan surged forwards, slashing at Jace with furious speed. Jace parried almost on instinct, but with a single half-sword he could hardly meet Jonathan in strength and gave ground, but there was something familiar to the way he slipped through Jace’s defenses like water—  
  
A powerful jerk on his wrist and the blade flew out of his hand, clattering to the floor.  
  
Jace stared at Jonathan as if seeing him for the first time. His own breathing was ragged; Jonathan was barely winded. A trail of blood so dark it was almost black dripped from his nose, but he didn’t seem to notice.  
  
“Are...you okay?” Alec’s voice broke the silence, and Jace wasn’t sure if he was talking to himself or Jonathan.  
  
Then, without a word, Jonathan dropped his sword and fled.  
  
  
  
  
“Did that just happen?” Alec wondered aloud. “Because if it did, I’m buying him all the drinks in New York.”  
  
Jace glared at him, but his heart clearly wasn’t in it. Concern suddenly poured through Alec. “Are you hurt?” he asked, dropping off the windowsill and hurrying to Jace’s side.  
  
Jace waved him away, very red in the face. “I’m fine,” he said shortly. “Just—“  
  
“Shaken?” Alec suggested.  
  
Jace shook his head.  
  
“Stirred?”  
  
“Confused,” Jace said. “Who kidnapped Jonathan and replaced him with someone with a spine?”  
  
Alec found this a bit rude, but did not comment. Jace’s ego, despite what everyone else in the world thought, was not quite the anti-artillery tank it was made out to be. By comparison Alec knew his own would be something akin to a glass canon, but he tried not to think about it.  
  
“Look, you were tired,” Alec said. “We’d been going at it all afternoon. Jonathan was just blowing off steam. Maybe he just has a temper. A very, very well-hidden temper.”  
  
That would explain the very large and always prominent _calm anger_ rune on his neck. Alec realized he’d never quite bothered to think about it, or even ask. Jonathan was so quiet, so self-possessed, it seemed almost like bothering him even to interact with him.  
  
Jace shook his head. Before Alec could press him further, both their phones vibrated in their pockets. Alec got to his first—it was Maryse.  
  
_Inquisitor Herondale is coming. Clave mandate to test Jace._  
  
Alec looked up sharply. “If she’s coming by portal from Alicante, she’ll be here any minute.”  
  
Jace swore, leaping up to his feet, self-pity forgotten. He had the nervous yet excited look of Max when told he would be allowed to try a new weapon. “Now?”  
  
“Yeah, you might wanna put on a fresh change of clothes, O brave youth,” Alec said, smacking him with a towel. “Also some deodarant, because you smell.”  
  
“Your ability to psych me up for the trials of life is rival to none,” Jace replied, grinning.  
  
  
  
  
  
When Alec arrived in the foyer, the Inquisitor was already there. A solid, imposing woman, with keen, piercing eyes and a mouth with about as much sympathy as a seraph blade.  
  
“No. Absolutely not.”  
  
Alec frowned. Was that Jonathan, again? It hardly sounded like him. His voice was sharp and hard as _adamas_. The way he planted himself in place reminded Alec overwhelmingly of Jace.  
  
The Inquisitor raised an eyebrow. “I was not aware I required your permission to do anything, Mr. Morgenstern.”  
  
“Do whatever you want,” Jonathan snapped. “But leave Jace alone. There’s nothing special about him. Go find another lab rat somewhere else.”  
  
Alec’s eyebrows shot up of their own accord. Was he _possessed_? Alec couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard Jonathan say anything rude, let alone snap at the high Inquisitor of the Clave. He made his way to the foyer faster, heart speeding up. He fumbled with his phone to text Izzy—she wasn’t the best influence when it came to sassing adults, but even she could see the madness in talking that way to the Clave’s Inquisitor.  
  
“You’ve always had quite the attitude, Mr. Morgenstern.” The Inquisitor replied sharply. “I’m disappointed to see the years and captivity have not made you much the wiser.”  
  
Jonathan snarled something in reply and suddenly two of the Clave’s shadowhunters were wrestling him back. He looked positively mad, teeth bared and hate blazing in his dark eyes. Alec fired off a few more texts as he hurried to Jonathan’s side, grabbing him by the shoulder and shaking him, hard.  
  
“Alec,” Jonathan gasped. “Tell Jace—not to test—don’t—“  
  
“Jonathan!” Izzy came into the room at a run. “Jonathan, stop!”  
  
As if charmed by the sound of her voice, Jonathan ceased struggling, though his death-glare at the Inquisitor did not.  
  
“Inquisitor Herondale, ma’am,” Izzy said breathlessly. “It’s an honor to meet you. I am Isabelle Lightwood, and this is my brother Alexander Lightwood.”  
  
She sounded sincere—Alec imagined she appreciated seeing a woman in such a high position of power. Alec would be too, if she wasn’t quite so terrifying.  
  
“Miss Lightwood,” the Inquisitor said, clearly unimpressed. “Is it the custom of this Institute for ranking members of the Clave to be attacked by the children of criminals on arrival?”  
  
Izzy flushed and took a step back, grabbing onto Jonathan’s arm. Steeled by a lifetime of seamlessly covering each other’s backs, Alec said, “My sincerest apologies, madam Inquisitor. Our team faced a greater demon attack this afternoon, and though my sister was able to banish it, Jonathan seemed to suffer demon venom poisoning. Isabelle, why don’t you get him back to the Infirmary?”  
  
Jonathan glared balefully Alec’s way but thankfully had the good sense to keep quiet. The Inquisitor seemed ready to say something else when Jace appeared, jogging up in a crisp white t-shirt and clean gear. Alec had never been so profoundly grateful to see him. “Inquisitor Herondale, ma’am,” he said brightly. “When do we start?”  
  
  
  
  
“Have you gone crazy?” Izzy demanded, grabbing Jonathan’s arm so tightly it hurt. His knees were so weak it was probably for the better. “Throwing yourself at the Inquisitor? Do you have a death wish that I should know about?”  
  
Jonathan opened his mouth to speak but shut it rather abruptly as his stomach heaved. He hadn’t eaten at all that day, but when his stomach roiled again he slipped out of Izzy’s grip and heaved thin bile onto the stone floor.  
  
“By the Angel,” Izzy exclaimed. “Was Alec right? Do you have demon venom poisoning?”  
  
Jonathan shook his head emphatically, struggling to his feet and staggering towards the stairs. “Jace,” he gasped out. “Don’t let Herondale test him—don’t let her anywhere near him—“  
  
Izzy was staring at him as if he’d entirely lost his mind. “Jonathan? What are you talking about?”  
  
He struggled up the stairs, taking them three at a time; it felt like an invisible hand had tightened around his chest, crushing his windpipe. He staggered into his room, plunging into the back of his closet and grabbing frantically around until his hand wrapped around the blade of his dagger. He hissed in pain but pressed the cold adamas to his frantically pounding heart, his breathing gradually slowing as the tight, painful knot in his chest slowly dissolved.  
  
“Are you okay?” Izzy’s voice was thick with concern. “Jonathan. What’s wrong?”  
  
“Herondale,” Jonathan said once he found his voice again. The dagger was solid in his palm, the sting of the blade’s cut even more so. He opened his hand to find it covered in brown-black blood. He had always found his blood to look like the mundanes’ oil spills. “Before I came here to the Institute, when I was ten, she was the one to question me with _Metallarch_. For days at a time. Weeks. The Soul Sword it—it burns, even when you tell the truth. When you try not to—“  
  
“If Jace agrees to be tested, it won’t stop there,” he said, more evenly. “Next it’ll be constant monitoring. Then he’ll be taken back to Alicante, then he’ll be kept there permanently. He can’t agree to it, and not with Herondale. She’ll take everything he has and then some if it means killing Valentine.”  
  
Izzy shook her head, confused. “But Valentine is dead.”  
  
“She doesn’t think so,” Jonathan said. “It’s madness, but she won’t believe it. I’m not even sure his corpse would convince her.”  
  
Izzy sat down next to him, her hand warm on his. His throat threatened to close up again, this time for different reason. “I understand why you reacted how you did,” she said, and the word were oddly like music to his ears. “But Jace is safe. He’s—he’s not related to Valentine, like you are, the Clave treats him differently. And he has my parents behind him, and Alec—they won’t let anything happen to him.”  
  
The truth clawed at him, sharp and compelling. Michael Wayland wasn’t Jace’s father. Valentine raised him, before the Clave stole him away—other Jonathan. Watching the other Jonathan, the golden boy, through the keyhole of his room in the Wayland manor. The cabin in Brocalind Forest. Other Jonathan—his stupid, arrogant little brother—could not be allowed to suffer at the hands of Imogen Herondale and her pointless crusade.  
  
Jonathan attempted a smile. “Of course they will.”  
  
Izzy smiled back, unworried. “I didn’t realize you cared so much for Jace,” she said, pushing his hair back from his face. “In fact, I would have thought you hated him.”  
  
It was infinitely more complicated than that.  
  
“He’s your brother,” Jonathan said resolutely. “So he’s my brother, too.”  
  
Izzy’s smile turned amused. “I won’t tell him you said that.”  
  
“Good.” His hands were still shaking, just a little. “Same goes for Alec. And Max.”  
  
Alec was a secret-keeper, like him. His secrets weren’t like Jonathan’s, but he hoarded them, loved them as much as he detested them. Tormented himself with them, because in his mind to release the burden from his shoulders would be to burden the shoulders of those he loved.  
  
Izzy’s dark brown eyes shone, her grip tight on his hand. “What dagger is this?” she asked, in lieu of an answer.  
  
Jonathan looked down at the dagger in his hand, as if he’d forgotten what it looked like. Grey-tinted adamas, sharpened to a silver edge, with silver stars carved into the blade. “A Morgenstern dagger,” he said tonelessly. “One of a set. A greatsword, half-sword, and a dagger.”  
  
That did not answer her question, he knew.  
  
Before she could press further Max’s voice floated down the hall. “Izzy! Izzy, can you come tell me the story about the Muran demon? Jace isn’t here to tell it to me.”  
  
“Go tell him,” Jonathan said quickly, before Izzy could even open her mouth to decline. “I’ll be okay. I’m tired, anyway.”  
  
Izzy offered him a grin. “Maybe I should tell the story to you, too.”  
  
“Since I was actually somewhat there, the mass embellishment Jace adorned that story with will have less of an effect.”  
  
Izzy squeezed his hand. “See you tomorrow morning.”  
  
“You too.”  
  
  
  
  
That night, Jonathan dreamed of the throne room. It is massive, cavernous, like some glacier had come and hollowed out a palace in the stone. Hung with thousands of myriad witchlight fragments, it looks almost like the night sky in the perpetual dusk. The two thrones tower above a stone dais, craggy and proud like the room itself. _Adamas pur._  
  
The captive queen and the cruel king sit on the thrones, surveying the realm. Their eyes do not move; they are living stone, blinking once a thousand years. They do not speak.  
  
The queen whispers to Jonathan of gold eyes, coffee in a sunny window, wedding gold. These mean nothing to him, but they mean everything to her. The king’s touch ghosts over Jonathan’s throat, his cheeks and lips. Jonathan can feel the king’s breath on his ear when he whispers the one word:  
  
_eromachi._  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be putting up what I have of this story as I can find the time, hope you guys enjoy <33

“Alec, what are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be with Jace?”  
  
Alec pushed glumly at his oatmeal, trying to rid it of lumps in an attempt to keep from thinking. “I am. Inquisitor Herondale kicked me out.”  
  
Izzy frowned. “Why would she do that?”  
  
Alec shrugged. “Something about me ‘ruining his focus’.”  
  
“Bullshit,” Izzy said fiercely. “Has she ever heard of the _parabatai_ bond? Jace needs you.”  
  
Alec shrugged again. “You tell her that. I tried to but I might as well have mentioned it to the wall.”  
  
Izzy crossed her arms in front of her cereal, looking dissatisfied on his behalf. “And Jace?”  
  
“He wants to impress her. I can’t blame him, I’d be doing the same thing.”  
  
“Well, hopefully she comes around,” Izzy said, digging into her Cheerios. “Have you seen Jonathan? He’s usually up by now.”  
  
“I haven’t seen him this morning,” Alec said. “Though yesterday he came into the training room and completely kicked Jace’s ass. That and yelling at the Inquisitor. Do you know what’s going on with him?”  
  
Izzy’s wide-eyed surprise somehow didn’t seem entirely authentic. “He kicked Jace’s ass? Thank the Angel, someone had to.”  
  
“But you have to admit it’s a little out of character,” Alec pressed.  
  
Izzy shrugged. “Why don’t you ask him? He’s right there.”  
  
Indeed, Jonathan was headed towards their table, looking far less lionlike out of his gear and more normal in a sweater and jeans. When he drew nearer, Alec noticed dark smudges under his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept.  
  
“May I join you?” he asked, with a characteristic unassuming smile, though it looked a little strained.  
  
“Yeah, sure,” Alec said, pulling back his glass and bowl so he could fit on the bench next to Izzy. He’d never, ever admitted this to anyone, himself included, but Jonathan’s accent was sort of hot.  
  
“We have routine rounds in the club districts today,” Izzy announced, before either boy could say anything. “Jace hopefully should be coming, Hodge said he’d speak to the Inquisitor about it.”  
  
At mention of Inquisitor Herondale, Jonathan’s expression became decidedly pinched, but he said nothing. He was eating something awful like bran meal, which Alec had no idea how he bore, but he also ate all of Izzy’s cooking, so maybe he didn’t actually have taste buds.  
  
“I hope she does,” Alec said darkly. “The testing is great and all that, but we need Jace on our team.”  
  
_I_ need Jace on the team, he added silently.  
  
“She will,” Izzy said confidently. She always sounded confident, of everything. Why had that gene skipped him completely? “But we could always kidnap him.”  
  
“Hodge would love that.”  
  
“Since when do we actually care what Hodge thinks?” Izzy grinned. “But seriously, I think the worst that’s been sighted in the area is a shapeshifter demon. The three of us are more than plenty to stop it.”  
  
“Uh huh,” said Alec, who was unconvinced.  
  
  
  
  
Later that afternoon Izzy was knee-deep in Jonathan’s closet, rooting through the huge tangle of pants and shirts (he did actually hang up his jackets). Most of his clothes had been bought by her—not that he didn’t love shopping almost as much as she did—as the Institute hadn’t really thought to provide him with a budget for clothes. Or really, with anything at all. Practically Izzy didn’t mind this, as she always got the last word on everything. They’d saved each other from many, many fashion mistakes in the past.  
  
“Jonathan,” she whined. “Jonathan, where’s the shirt I got you for your eighteenth birthday?”  
  
Jonathan looked up from his book. “You mean the one with the note saying ‘for your new life as a prostitute?’”  
  
“Yeah, that one.”  
  
“In the drawer. I don’t really wear it.”  
  
Izzy attacked the dresser with zeal. This was actually pretty organized, and she found the shirt in question in a few minutes. It still had the note attached, written in pink gel pen with a string of _XOXO_ ’s. In retrospect, it was probably a bit much, but Jonathan hadn’t minded.  
  
Izzy removed the note and the tags, careful not to damage the delicate material. It was a sheer dress shirt (black, of course) made of a material that felt silky in her hands. Not as sheer as something she’d wear, but she’d hoped a passerby might notice what they were otherwise missing.  
  
She grabbed a pair of black jeans and threw both at him. “I picked your outfit for tonight.”  
  
He gave her a long-suffering look. “Izzy, these jeans stopped fitting a year ago.”  
  
“Exactly,” she said, pleased. “Now come help me pick out shoes to go with my dress.”  
  
Dutifully, he pushed himself off the bed and followed her into her own room, where she’d already pulled out three dresses and five pairs of shoes. “Red, white, or black?” she asked, without preamble.  
  
“White shows blood, but black is too dark for a club,” Jonathan said. “So red or white. If you’re willing to do the dry cleaning, white is better.”  
  
Izzy beamed. “I knew I could rely on you.” She tossed the rejected dresses into a pile on the chair at her desk. “Now shoes. Are white boots too much?” She held up a pair of knee-high heeled boots.  
  
“Izzy—“  
  
“Too much? I did wonder.” She held up another pair. “Ankle boots?”  
  
“Either is fine,” Jonathan said quickly. “Izzy, I know yesterday was a lot to take in—“  
  
Izzy’s smile froze. “Jonathan, can we talk about this after the mission?”  
  
Jonathan looked perplexed. “Well—if you want.”  
  
“Izzy? Hey, Izzy!” The door opened and Max tumbled through. “Alec says you’re going on a mission. Can I come too?”  
  
“What? Max, no. You haven’t completed your training.” Izzy fussed over him, pulling a piece of grass out of his hair. “You’re lucky they let you here so young, with mom and dad in Idris.”  
  
Max pulled a face. “Please, Izzy? I’ll follow orders, I swear.”  
  
“We’re going to a club, silly. They’ll never let you in.”  
  
Max’s face fell like a soufflé. He brightened slightly at seeing Jonathan. “Alec said you beat Jace in a fight. Is that true?”  
  
Izzy shot Jonathan a warning glare. Jonathan shrugged. “I got lucky.”  
  
“There’s no such thing as luck,” Max said. “Maybe it’s because you’re taller than Jace.”  
  
Izzy laughed. “What does being tall have to do with it, Max?”  
  
Max shrugged. “I don’t know. But I want to be as tall as Jonathan some day.”  
  
“Eat your vegetables,” Jonathan advised. “And drink plenty of milk.”  
  
Max’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Mom told you to say that, didn’t she?”  
  
“Max! There you are.” Alec appeared seconds later, scowling. To Izzy, he said, “Keeping up with him is like a training exercise. Anyway, the Inquisitor let Jace go. We’re leaving the Institute as soon as someone pulls Hodge away from his books.”  
  
Izzy rolled her eyes. “So, an hour, minimum. Okay, go change. I’m not going to a club with you if you’re wearing that.”  
  
Alec looked offended. “What’s wrong with my clothes?”  
  
Izzy shoed Max, Jonathan, and Alec from her room. “Jonathan, sort Alec out. Max, work on your katas, I’ll check your progress when we get back.”  
  
  
  
Jace emerged to find Alec and Izzy in the foyer, Izzy looking as if she’d walked off a red carpet somewhere, and Alec glowering as if someone had locked him in a washing machine. “Okay, did I miss the invitation to a fancy dress party? And why does Jonathan look like a hooker?”  
  
“I told you it was too much eyeliner,” Jonathan told Izzy in an undertone.  
  
“Any eyeliner is too much,” Alec whined. “It stings. Why do you wear this stuff?”  
  
“That’s the mascara, not the eyeliner,” Izzy told her brother archly. “Jace, you look passable, but if it comes to it I may be forced to deny knowing you.”  
  
“Why does he get to wear jeans and a t-shirt and I don’t?” Alec demanded.  
  
“You are wearing jeans and a t-shirt,” Jonathan reminded him.  
  
“ _Your_ t-shirt,” Alec grumbled. “Which is approximately ten sizes too small.”  
  
“That’s because you normally wear shirts ten sizes too big,” Izzy said. “Honestly, Alec, what’s the point of having abs if you don’t show them off?”  
  
“That’s my philosophy,” Jace interjected, and Alec spluttered something unintelligible. “We ready to head out?”  
  
“I am,” Izzy said, rearranging her whip on her wrist.  
  
Alec moved his shoulders so his arrows clanked on his back and scowled. “If I rip this shirt trying to use my bow, I’m holding you all personally responsible.”  
  
  
  
  
“There,” Izzy whispered. “In the horrible tweed suit.”  
  
They’d found and tracked the shapeshifter demon to a club called Pandemonium. Even in the soft rain it glimmered with magic—the sort of place Maryse and Robert would never approve of. Then the shapeshifter slipped in, disappearing into the smoky air.  
  
Alec swore. “There’s no way we’re getting in. That’s a downworlder club—I don’t think we’ll be popular.”  
  
“You never know,” Jace said reasonably. “They don’t know we’re working. We could be here to relax.”  
  
“Relax,” Alec repeated, incredulously. “ _At a club_?”  
  
“Just because you enjoy watching cat videos for fun doesn’t mean we’re all as geriatric as you are—“  
  
Alec punched Jace’s arm, none too lightly. “Fine. But I don’t like this.”  
  
Resolute, they made for the entrance. Glamored at Jace’s insistence, because in his own words, if a mundane saw him in a wet t-shirt there’d be a commotion.  
  
“There’s a line,” Alec reported glumly. “And I’m pretty sure we don’t get a student discount.”  
  
Izzy gave a tinkling laugh. “Oh you of little faith. Leave this to us.” She hooked her arm in Jonathan’s, stalking to the head of the line. Alec heard the bouncer say something, Izzy laugh, her hand on his arm. At her side, Jonathan played with the bouncer’s tie, a strange smile on his lips.  
  
“Is it just me,” began Jace, “Or are those two completely different when they’re not around us?”  
  
“It’s not just you,” said Alec.  
  
A second later Izzy beckoned to them, looking impatient. Alec and Jace hurried to join her. As they passed Jace bumped into a mundane girl arm in arm with her friend.  
  
“Hey!” she exclaimed. “Watch it.”  
  
Jace gaped at her. “You can see me?”  
  
Before she could reply, Alec grabbed Jace’s arm. “C’mon,” he said quickly. “Izzy’s waiting.”  
  
Jace let himself be led away, frowning. “Are you sure you did my glamour rune right?”  
  
“Yes,” Alec said, through gritted teeth. “Maybe your wet t-shirt powers are too strong to be glamoured.”  
  
Izzy saw them coming and scowled, as if to say, _what took you so long_?    
  
“They’re with us,” she said, and gave the bouncer her most charming smile. The bouncer shrugged; a few seconds later they were inside, Alec grimacing at the noise and thick smoke.  
  
“That was easy,” Jace remarked, almost shouting to be heard over the din of the music.  
  
Izzy gave a very self-satisfied smile. “The bouncer was a vampire. Vampires love Jonathan.”  
  
“Yeah, it’s probably the only audience where looking like printer paper is hot.” Jace crossed his arms over his chest, scanning the crowd. “The shapeshifter will have changed again.”  
  
“It came here to lose us,” Alec said. “Cover the exits and we’ll find it.”  
  
“What if it attacks someone before that?” Izzy sounded worried. “Alec’s right, but if it’s in the crowd we have a responsibility for their safety.”  
  
“There.” Jonathan’s voice was sudden. “Heading into the back rooms.”  
  
“It’s a trap,” Alec warned, his glower evident just from his voice alone.  
  
“I love traps,” Jace said, and charged.  
  
  
  
  
“Clary!” Simon’s voice trailed after her. “Why exactly are we chasing after a dude again? Especially since like, you don’t even like dudes? And I can’t even see this dude?”  
  
“He had a sword, Simon!” Clary called back. “And he just went into a crowded club. Don’t tell me you don’t see a problem.”  
  
“I don’t, actually,” Simon said, now at her shoulder in the crowd. The club’s lights reflected off his glasses lenses, hiding his eyes. “Since I didn’t actually see the guy at all. Also, what are you going to do, tackle him? What if he’s a ninja?”  
  
Clary shoved through the crowd, the blonde guy still in her sights. Elbows, hips, shoulders dug at her, buffeting her back, but she kept pushing until she was free. She vaulted up the steps two at a time, pushing back the velvet curtain the sword guy had disappeared through. It hadn’t been a fake sword, either, she’d thought as she wound her way through the dim hall. She’d been to enough comic cons to know a fake one when she saw it.  
  
“Clary, wait up!” Simon called.  
  
Clary saw a light through the doorway and burst through just in time to see blonde sword guy swinging it at a girl. Alarm turned to action and Clary grabbed the nearest thing—a plump velvet footstool—and held it in front of her as a shield, slamming into him like a battering ram.  
  
This knocked him off his feet entirely. Clary turned to the girl, but before she could react snapping claws like a crab’s burst from the girl’s face. Clary yelled and hurled the footstool at her with all her strength, but it barely slowed her down.  
  
A crack sounded and a line of silver came down on crab girl’s shoulders and she disappeared, leaving behind only dark smoke. Clary blinked in shock and surprise, whirling around; all around her other writhing human-looking things like crab girl disappeared in smoke.  
  
Then as suddenly as the action had started, it was over. Clary stood shell-shocked, staring at sword guy and the others with him. First off, they were all holding weapons of some sort, who even knows how they got those into the club. Second, they were all unrealistically supermodel hot. Clary found herself staring at the girl with the whip who had killed crab girl—she had big, dark eyes, gorgeous waves of black hair, tawny skin and flawless red lipstick. It was entirely possible she was Wonder Woman.  
  
“Who are you?” Clary demanded, turning on sword guy nearest her. “What was that? What’s going on?”  
  
“How can she see us?” the girl with the whip asked sharply. “Not that I’d miss a chance to see Jace knocked over with a footstool, but we’re glamored.”  
  
“She could see us before,” sword guy, Jace, said. “Outside the club, while you were chatting up the vampire. I thought Alec had messed up my glamour rune—“  
  
“I did not!” another guy protested—Alec, Clary assumed. He had messy black hair and unfair hazel eyes. He looked a bit like the girl with the whip. “She can see all of us, so unless we’ve all forgotten how to draw runes, it’s something else.”  
  
“Anybody want to explain why people have crabs coming out of their faces?” Clary asked, her voice sounding a bit shrill.  
  
“Clary!” It was Simon, looking thoroughly out of breath. “People with crabs coming out of their faces? What?”  
  
“I’m not talking to you, Simon, I’m talking to them,” Clary said. “What’s going on?”  
  
Simon’s eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. “Clary, who are you talking to?”  
  
“By the Angel, he’s even more mundane than the other one,” Jace groaned. “Can we de-glamour just to shut him up?”  
  
Alec scowled. “The Clave mandates—“  
  
“Just do it, Alec,” the girl with the whip said, pulling a slender metal object out of her dress. She appeared to shimmer for a second and then Simon let out an exclamation of surprise.  
  
“Okay, she’s not a blonde dude with a sword but I get why you charged in after her,” Simon said. “But uh, how did she appear out of thin air, exactly?”  
  
“I’m Isabelle,” the girl said, extending her hand to shake Clary’s. “But you can call me Izzy. You met Jace and Alec, and that’s Jonathan.” She pointed to the tall, light-blond boy behind her. “Look, we’re sorry you got involved somehow, but we’re on a mission right now, and it’s dangerous for mundanes like you.”  
  
“She has the Sight, Izzy,” Jace protested. “We don’t know she’s a mundane. She could be in danger—“  
  
Alec snorted. “Of hitting you with another piece of furniture, maybe.”  
  
“He’s got a point, Alec,” Izzy said, looking at Clary with an intentness that made her face burn rather hot. “We don’t know why she can see us. Maybe someone put a spell on her. Hodge might know—”  
  
“Or maybe she’s just a warlock and doesn’t know it,” Alec argued back. “We don’t have time for this. We have to make sure there’s not more shapeshifter demons.”  
  
“We could take her back to the Institute,” Jace said. “Like Izzy says, Hodge might know. He won’t mind, it’s not the first time we’ve bent the rules. It could be part of something bigger.”  
  
“Has anyone forgotten we have the high Inquisitor of the Clave waiting for us at home?” Alec demanded. “I’m pretty sure she won’t like us bringing a _mundane_ in right under her nose.”  
  
“Can you stop talking about me like I’m not here?” Clary interjected.  
  
None of them looked even vaguely apologetic.  
  
“Has anything weird happened lately?” Izzy asked. “Stranger coming to your house, objects moving of their own accord. Stuff like that.”  
  
“No,” Clary said. “Look, I just came out to celebrate my birthday with Simon, and this guy runs into me with a bloody sword and I came in here and there were _crab people_ —“ She broke off as her phone rang—the loud, cheery tone she’d chosen for her mother. Or, more aptly, her mother had chosen so Clary would pick up the phone.  
  
“My sword was not bloody,” Jace interrupted as Clary fumbled to answer it.  
  
“Hi Mom,” Clary said. “Listen, Simon and I are still at his poetry reading, I said we’d be out until late—“  
  
“ _Clary! Clary._ ” Her mother was practically yelling, a taut urgency in her voice Clary had never heard. “ _Listen to me. Don’t come back to the house, it’s dangerous here. Go to Luke’s. Go to Luke’s and tell him Valentine is back and he’s coming for the Cup._ ”  
  
“Mom?” Clary choked out. Sword boy and whip girl were immediately forgotten, panic narrowing her mind to nothing but her mother’s voice. “Mom, what’s going on—?”  
  
“ _Clary! Promise me you’ll tell him. Don’t come here, whatever you do. Repeat back to me what I said to tell him. Quickly now._ ”  
  
“Go to Luke’s and tell him Valentine is back and he’s coming for the cup,” Clary repeated. “What does that mean? Mom—do I need to call the police?”  
  
An unearthly howl tore through the speakers and Clary heard a terrible scream, then more howls before the line went dead.  
  
“ _Mom!_ ” Clary stabbed the call button on her phone’s screen, but it seemed not to respond. “Mom—“  
  
A hand closed around her wrist and suddenly the light-blond boy’s face was half a foot from hers. “What did you mean Valentine is back?” he snarled, his black eyes boring into hers. “What did you mean he’s coming for the Cup?”  
  
Clary tried to shake him off but his grip was too strong. “I don’t know!” she exclaimed. “My mom—she’s in trouble, she just told me to tell Luke that, I’ve never heard anything like that before—“  
  
“You’re lying,” the boy growled. “Valentine is dead. I know he’s dead!”  
  
“Jonathan!” Izzy grabbed him by the shoulders and hauled him back, concern flashing in her dark eyes, for him or Clary, Clary wasn’t sure. “Leave her alone, she’s just repeating what she was told.”  
  
“Those sounded like demons,” Jace said, looking as taken aback as the rest of them, as if she’d told them Stalin was back from the dead and had been spotted in Soho. “We should investigate, someone could be in danger. And if Valentine and the Cup are involved—“  
  
“Valentine is dead!” the silver-haired boy—Jonathan—shouted. “It’s impossible—he can’t be back.”  
  
Clary was glad to note she was not the only one staring at him as if he were completely crazy, even if she had no idea what he was talking about. “My mom’s in danger,” she said, grabbing Simon’s hand. “If think you can help me, come with me.  
  
Simon just looked very pale, stumbling along in her wake as she started down the steps back to the club. “Uh, Clary—if your mom said to go to Luke’s don’t you think we should—“  
  
“I can’t leave her, Simon,” Clary blurted out, her knees feeling very weak. Her mother’s panicked voice and that awful scream played over and over in her head, filling her with cold fear like nettles prickling at her blood. “I’ve got to see if she’s all right.”  
  
  
  
  
“You do realize _this_ could be a trap,” Alec said, looking displeased and worried. “Valentine and the Cup—it’s exactly what would get us to investigate. We should call for backup, I’m sure the Inquisitor would grant us—“  
  
“We don’t have time for backup, Alec,” Izzy said. “The girl’s mother is in danger, you heard that. Besides, there’s the four of us, and we’ll be careful.” She turned to Jonathan, as if confident he would agree. “What do you think?”  
  
“And please don’t say Valentine is dead, we got that part,” Alec added.  
  
If Jonathan heard him, he didn’t react. “I don’t know what’s going on,” he said, sounding rather hoarse. “But we should investigate.”  
  
“See?” Izzy said. “Jace—“ she broke off, suddenly. Jace was already gone.  
  
“For fuck’s sake,” Alec groaned. “Jace and his raging hard-on for danger—“  
  
“—and redheads,” Izzy added, already starting after the girl and Jace. “It seems like we have no choice but to rescue our brother from his own boner.”  
  
  
  
Simon had never driven so far over the speed limit in his life. Well, he had in GTA V, but that didn’t really count, because the police usually didn’t arrest you for that. Also, Simon usually did his best to observe traffic safety laws in GTA. He tried to do a bad run once, but he couldn’t bring himself to go through with it.  
  
Now, he was doing it, speeding down the freeway like a very large and colorful bat out of hell. In real life. With real police.  
  
“Almost there,” he said, to no one in particular. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Clary. He couldn’t imagine how she was feeling; he himself felt sick to his stomach, like he’d eaten too many hot dogs on the fourth of July.  
  
“Doesn’t this thing go any faster?” A guy, the cute one, demanded. Well, actually they were all pretty cute, which was another reason Simon’s pulse was racing. But Simon apparently had a thing for blondes that he’d never really had much time to meditate on. He caught the guy’s eye briefly in the mirror—oh God, he had heterochromia.  
  
“Uh, not really, no,” Simon said, sounding exactly as nervous and awful as he felt. “Actually, I’m on the edge of redlining the engine, so that’s actually a hard no. Are you sure no one can see us? Like a hundred percent sure?”  
  
“Yes,” the blonde guy said, sounding annoyed. What was his name again? Jace. A good name, Simon thought to himself as he took a turn that probably should have sent the van flying over the edge of the freeway into a firey death below. If only he wasn’t, like, ten thousand leagues under the sea out of Simon’s league.  
  
“There!” Clary exclaimed, as soon as her house was visible from the window. The moment the van was stopped she threw open the door and clambered out, hardly waiting for anyone else.  
  
“Wait!” the girl, Izzy said. “Let us go first. We don’t know what’s in there.”  
  
“My mom’s in there,” Clary shot back. “I have to know if she’s all right—“  
  
“And getting yourself killed won’t help her any,” Jace finished,  firmly. “You’ll be right behind us, we promise.” To Izzy, he said, “Alec and I will take the bottom floor. You and Jonathan take the top floor. Keep the mundanes with you.”  
  
Izzy nodded, heading for the back entrance visible from the front door. The tall, scary-looking guy followed her, sword in one hand and dagger clenched in the other. Simon did his best not to be unnerved and failed. It was downright unnerving. He did have a nice body, though—  
  
Simon’s first impression of the house was that it had been completely destroyed. Drywall ripped from the walls, furniture hacked apart, Clary and Jocelyn’s stuff ripped up and strewn everywhere. Simon heard Clary make a little exclamation of shock and grabbed her hand tightly.  
  
“She’s okay, Clary,” he whispered. “Jocelyn would beat up the bogeyman with a frying pan.”  
  
Clary squeezed his hand but said nothing. Izzy and Jonathan split up in the living room, Izzy heading carefully towards the bedrooms, Jonathan creeping silently into the kitchen. The fridge had been torn apart, the door ripped from its hinges, the contents spilled and squished all over the floor.  
  
Then suddenly Clary screamed. She grabbed Simon and threw him to the floor seconds before the living room floor erupted in a deluge of splinters and plaster dust. Simon could hear Izzy shouting and Clary yelling before she grabbed the back of his shirt and hauled him to his feet, grabbing his hand.  
  
“What was that?!” Simon demanded, staring at the ragged hole in the floor in abject horror.  
  
“A demon,” Izzy said, her voice urgent. “You find anything?”  
  
Jonathan shook his head. “There was a fight, but that’s all I know. I didn’t find any blood.”  
  
“Nothing here either,” Izzy said. “The demons are probably coming through downstairs, Jace and Alec need our help.”  
  
“So my mom isn’t here?” Clary’s voice trembled. “This is our house, downstairs is our neighbor’s—“  
  
“ _Clary!_ ”  
  
For a second the voice was so familiar Simon’s heart leapt in his chest, thinking it was Jocelyn. But it was Dot, the downstairs neighbor. She had blood and dirt on her face, and looked badly hurt.  
  
“Clary, you need to get out, now,” she gasped, one hand clutched to her side and the other outstretched. “The Circle is coming for her—“  
  
“What?” Clary said. “Dot, I don’t understand, what’s happening—?”  
  
A sound like a shot went off and Izzy and Jonathan both raced for the stairs. Simon moved to follow when suddenly the window smashed and a man in black with a very large sword burst through. He saw Simon and raised the sword—  
  
“Oh shit,” said Simon, and grabbed the nearest thing—a piece of wood—and held it up to parry. It snapped in half and a jolt of pain shot up his arm; he stumbled back, panic shooting through him like an Epi Pen shot. “Oh fuck, oh fuck fuck fuck—“  
  
The man stumbled as Clary swung a half-ruined chair at his back with a shout like an Amazonian warrior. He swung the sword at her and Clary darted back, backpedaling wildly. Simon grabbed another piece of wood, but before he could swing a burst of dazzling blue light hit the man’s chest and he flew into the opposite wall, falling to the floor with a heavy _thump_.  
  
“Woah,” Simon said. “Dot, you’re—“  
  
“A warlock, yes,” Dot said quickly. “Clary, Simon, I have to portal you to Luke’s—“  
  
Simon was actually going to say “the coolest person on Earth, ever,” but knowing warlocks existed was good too.  
  
“Where is my mom?” Clary demanded. “Dot, where is she?”  
  
“Downstairs but— _Clary_ —“  
  
Clary ran for the stairs, taking them so fast she was liable to fall down. Simon ran after her, not nearly as fast, heart hammering in his chest. There were more black-clad attackers in Dot’s living room. Izzy and Jonathan were back-to-back, Izzy’s whip snapping out and ripping the blade from the woman in front of her’s hands. She and Jonathan whirled around and she cut the legs out from under the man Jonathan had been fighting as Jonathan drove his sword into the disarmed woman’s chest.  
  
“Clary, look out!” Izzy shouted. A flash of light and motion winked by and Simon ducked instinctively; another _thud_ sounded and when Simon turned around another man in black lay gurgling on the stairs, a dagger in his chest. A few stairs further up Dot lay still.  
  
“Dot,” Simon breathed. He scrambled up the stairs, pausing only to grab the dagger and pull on it until it came free (he’d yelled at enough action protagonists to grab any weapons that he knew to do it himself) and dropped to her side. He took her wrist in shaking hands—his mother, a nurse, had taught him to take a pulse and do CPR. “Dot, Dot are you okay?”  
  
Nothing.  
  
Simon’s stomach heaved but he forced himself to straighten up and turn around. Clary had descended the stairs fully and had a discarded sword in hand—and looked really damn cool, a remote, stupid part of Simon’s brain thought. He hurried down the stairs followed Clary into the living room.  
  
Purple light caught Simon’s eye and the image of Jocelyn, surrounded by four or five black-clad figures, grabbing Jace’s arm and charging for a great swirling vortex like a spawning animation in League seared into his eyes, as if time had frozen. He could hear Clary screaming her mother’s name. As if in slow-motion Jocelyn turned, her lips forming Clary’s name, but then she was gone, the purple vortex blinking out of existence and taking Jocelyn and Jace with it.  
  
“ _Mom_!” Clary screamed, and the pain in her voice was so terrible Simon wanted to grab her and hug her and tell her everything was going to be okay. But nothing about anything seemed even remotely okay, so he gripped the dagger in his hand like it was a lifeline and tried not to vomit.  
  
Two of the black-clad attackers dropped with arrows in their necks, the third and fourth falling to Izzy and Jonathan.  
  
Clary ran to the corner where the vortex had been, grabbing at the awful wallpaper as if to pluck her mother back from thin air. “Where did they go?” she demanded. “Bring them back!”  
  
Izzy and Alec looked pale and shocked, as if Jocelyn had been their mother, too. “Jace,” Alec said, more quietly than Clary.  
  
“She couldn’t have summoned the portal on her own,” Jonathan said, sounding as shaken as the rest of them. “She must have hired a warlock. If we can get them back, maybe they can open the portal again—“  
  
“Dot’s dead,” Simon blurted out suddenly. “She’s uh, she said she was a warlock, so she probably...did it or whatever. One of the guys stabbed her.”  
  
Clary’s face crumpled, and Simon felt even more wretched than before.  
  
“We have to get out of here,” Izzy said. “Get back to the Institute. The Inquisitor’s there, she can mobilize resources to look for Jace—“  
  
“What about my mom?” Clary demanded. “And Dot, we can’t just leave her, even if she’s—she’s—“ her voice broke where she would have said _dead_.  
  
“She’s the one who kidnapped Jace, if you hadn’t noticed,” Alec snapped. “Forgive us if our priority isn’t the person who caused this problem in the first place.”  
  
Clary opened her mouth to argue but Izzy took her arm, not roughly. “Where Jace is, your mom is,” she said, in calm tones. “We have ways of tracking Jace. We’ll find them.”  
  
  
  
  
When they returned to the Institute, everything was in chaos. Inquisitor Herondale was in the center of the incident room, barking out orders, shadowhunters running this way and that—  
  
“Mom? What are you doing here?”  
  
Maryse rushed to her side, grabbing her and Alec into a crushing embrace. She was paler than Izzy had ever seen her, her skin chalky as Jonathan’s. “Max is missing,” she breathed, her voice tight with strain. “We think he snuck out of the Institute so your father and I portaled from Alicante the moment we heard. Thank the Angel you’re here.”  
  
“Mom, Jace is missing too,” Izzy said urgently. “We need to find him. We think Valentine’s back and is looking for the Mortal Cup.”  
  
If possible, her mother’s face went even more pale, as if the blood had been drained from her body. “What did you say?” she said, her voice hardly above a whisper. “Why—what have you seen?”  
  
“We were out on a mission and this mundane could see us,” Alec said. “She got a call from her mother saying that Valentine was back and looking for the Cup, and it sounded like she was under attack by demons, so we went to investigate. We were ambushed by demons and shadowhunters, no one we know. The girl’s mother was there and she grabbed Jace before portaling away.”  
  
Maryse stared at Alec as if she could not quite process the words he had said. “What mundane—how?”  
  
As if picking the worst possible moment, Clary elbowed her way forward. “My mom’s in danger,” she said. “I need to call Luke—she said to call Luke—“  
  
“Jocelyn,” Maryse breathed, staring at Clary as if she were a ghost.  
  
Clary took an involuntary step back. “That’s—how do you know her name?”  
  
“If Jocelyn says to call Luke, you should call him,” Maryse said, unsteadily. “Luke Garroway?”  
  
Clary looked at her as if she were crazy. “Are you psychic or something?”  
  
Maryse didn’t reply, swallowing visibly. “That’s...that’s not possible,” she said, and she looked at Jonathan when she said it.  
  
Izzy glanced from her to Jonathan and back in confusion. “Mom—we need to find Jace, I’m sure Max just went out to the gardens or something—“  
  
“I need to speak with Imogen,” Maryse said. “Don’t leave the Institute under any circumstance, any of you.”  
  
And with that she turned and hurried away.  
  
“You said these people could help me find my mom,” Clary said. “How did she know Luke’s name? And my mother’s? Izzy, what’s going on?”  
  
“I—I don’t know,” Izzy admitted, trying not to appear as shaken as she felt. “I’ve never seen my mom act like that. But if she says to call this Luke guy—“  
  
“How can Luke help?” Clary was starting to sound desperate, her voice raising to a shrill pitch. “He’s—he’s part of the NYPD but you said the police can’t help—“  
  
“Luke Garroway is the head of a werewolf pack in New York,” Jonathan supplied suddenly. His face was as unreadable and cryptic to Izzy as a page written in Cyrillic. “How do you know him?”  
  
“Werewolves?” Clary blanched. “He’s—he’s my mom’s best friend, I’ve known him since I was a kid—“  
  
“Call him.” Jonathan’s voice was commanding. “She may have planned a rendezvous with him if Valentine ever came for the Cup.”  
  
Alec stared at him in abject confusion. “Wait, hang on,” he said. “How does he know this?”  
  
“The heads of downworld organizations aren’t private knowledge.” Jonathan replied, almost rudely. He held out a hand towards Clary’s friend Simon, who jumped. “My dagger.”  
  
“Oh! Uh, right, sorry.” Simon held it out with shaky reverence. “Thanks for uh, saving my life and everything.”  
  
“It’s nothing.” Jonathan replied shortly, and by Simon’s wide-eyed expression he wasn’t sure if Jonathan referred to the life debt or Simon’s actual life. “I should be back tomorrow morning.” He started towards the hall, shoulders set.  
  
“Jonathan, stop,” Izzy called. Her mind whirled with something numb akin to panic. “Maryse said we can’t leave the Institute—we can’t risk losing more people.”  
  
“She’d hardly cared if I died,” Jonathan said sharply.  
  
Izzy grabbed his wrist. “I’d fucking care,” she snapped. “You’re not going anywhere.”  
  
“I concur with Miss Lightwood,” an arch voice said, and everyone, Izzy included, jerked to attention.  
  
The Inquisitor stood at the head of the foyer, her mouth set into a thin razor line. Three of the Clave’s shadowhunters stood at her side. “If you take another step towards that door, I’ll have you killed.”  
  
Jonathan jerked in her grip as if trying to get free but Izzy saw it coming and held on with all her strength. He struggled but Izzy had fear and desperation on her side. “Jonathan please,” she said, quietly as possible. “Two of my brothers are already gone. Don’t make it a third.”  
  
He stopped resisting at that, and did not fight back or meet her eyes as the Clave’s shadowhunters came and cuffed his wrists. Izzy’s stomach twisted painfully at the sight but he was _alive_ if not safe, and that would have to do for now. Still, she could not help but feel she’d sold his soul to the devil.  
  
“Take him to a cell,” Inquisitor Herondale said, her voice cold as steel.  
  
“Imogen,” Maryse said, where she stood at the Inquisitor’s side. “He may be a Morgenstern, but we have no confirmation of Valentine’s return—he’s my daughter’s _parabatai_. Don’t you think—“  
  
The Inquisitor turned on her mother, with a haughtiness that made Izzy’s blood boil. “Perhaps you should be thankful I don’t lock her up with him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story sort of picks up from here so....drama ahoy!


	3. Chapter 3

“Luke’s coming in five minutes,” Clary told Simon, trying not to shiver. During the commotion of the arrest—or whatever it was—Alec had grabbed her and Simon and spirited them away to an empty bedroom that looked like it had been built some time in the 1800’s. Stay here, he’d told them both, then disappeared.  
  
“Yeah, maybe that isn’t such a good idea,” Simon said. “Shit is obviously going down around here. Like I have played enough Skyrim to know this is bad, very bad. And if they know him—Luke, I mean—it could be even more bad.”  
  
Clary gave an unwilling chuckle. “ ‘I used to be a brave demon-hunter like you, until I took an arrow to the knee.’ ”  
  
Simon laughed. “That was terrible.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah. Not everyone has unlimited free time to devote to their vampire lord werewolf hybrid mage.”  
  
“I will have you know Lord Salazar is OP as living fuck,” Simon said, and that drew out another weak smile. “Look, Clary, I have no idea what’s going on, but it’ll be okay. Luke will get us out of here, no matter what. You remember when we were called to the principal’s office in kindergarten because you put leaves in Jacob’s sandwich because he kept pushing Eveie over? And Luke somehow sweet-talked the principal into letting us go?”  
  
Clary did remember, filled with a wave of nostalgia so strong it threatened to bring tears to her eyes. “Yeah,” she said softly. “I remember. And when we told him what we’d done and why we’d done it he bought us ice cream.”  
  
“Luke Garroway, ahead of the anti-bullying campaigns by at least a decade,” Simon said. “Also that was really good ice cream. Was it Marble Slab?”  
  
“Ben and Jerry’s,” Clary corrected. “Simon, it’s okay, you don’t have to keep trying to distract me.”  
  
“Trying?” Simon looked a little put out. “I thought I was succeeding.” He was silent a minute, then, “I could really use ice cream right now.”  
  
“Simon.”  
  
“I eat my feelings!” he protested. “And right now I sort of have a lot of them.”  
  
Suddenly the door opened and Alec came in, shutting the door hastily behind him.  
  
“Is Luke here?” Clary demanded. “When are you going to start looking for my mother? When is someone going to explain what the hell’s going on?”  
  
Alec grumbled something and sat down on the old steamer chest at the foot of the bed. “I brought you guys food,” he said, sounding somewhere between exhausted and grudging. “Your werewolf friend Luke came but the Inquisitor turned him away, to put it nicely. She seems to think we’re at war.”  
  
Clary’s stomach twisted. “Are you?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Alec said, and his voice sounded pretty desolate. “Not with the downworld, at any rate.” He pulled out a few boxes of takeout, cold from the refrigerator from the amount of grease soaking the paper, and a smattering of plastic silverware from a plastic bag. “They’ve shut Izzy and me out but from what I can gather your mother is a shadowhunter. Still not clear why she kidnapped Jace.”  
  
He looked up long enough to glare at her. “Are you going to eat?”  
  
Clary shook her head. “I’m not hungry.”  
  
“I am,” Simon said quickly, grabbing himself a box and a spork. “Look, uh, Alec. Clary and I don’t really know what’s going on. I don’t suppose you could give us a primer or something? Shadow hunters 101?”  
  
Alec rolled his eyes, but grudgingly nodded, stuffing noodles into his mouth. “Okay, so there’s nephilim and downworlders—vampires, werewolves, seelies, warlocks. And others, but those are the main ones. Nephilim are blessed by the Angel to kill demons and protect mundanes—you guys. That’s what shadowhunters do.”  
  
Simon nodded eagerly. “So like _Resident Evil_ crossed with _Star Wars_. Who’s this Valentine guy, and why is he so obsessed with pottery?”  
  
“Whatever that means,” Alec muttered. “Valentine Morgenstern is a rogue shadowhunter who hates the downworld. He rebelled against the Clave and the Accords—shadowhunter society and laws—years ago, and was narrowly defeated. His goal was to wipe out the entire downworld.”  
  
“So like, demon Hitler.”  
  
“Valentine was nephilim,” Alec corrected. “And he sought to use the Mortal Cup to build himself an army of shadowhunters to wipe out all the downworlders.”  
  
Simon waved a hand. “Okay, angel Hitler.” His eyes went big. “Wait, angel Hitler is back?”  
  
“We don’t know,” Alec said. “There’s no conclusive proof to suggest it, but it looks like Clary’s mother thought Valentine was coming for her for the Cup, which says that if he is back and she’s right, he thinks she has it. But everyone thought he was dead. Like, there was apparently a body and everything.”  
  
“Zombie Hitler?” Simon’s eyes were even bigger.   
  
“Can you stop with the mundane comparisons? Valentine isn’t Hitler.”  
  
Simon grumbled something but seemed to comply. “Okay, I get the Valentine Cup thing. What about what just happened now? Because I do not get that.”  
  
“It’s none of your business,” Alec snapped. “I already explained all you need to know.” He pushed his takeout away, pushing himself off the steamer trunk. “I’m needed elsewhere. Stay here until I come back.”  
  
“Hey—hey man, sorry,” Simon said, and Alec halted, hand on the doorknob. “I know you’re upset about your friend Jace, and uh, Max? That’s your brother, right?”  
  
The tension in Alec’s shoulders hitched. “Max is my brother, yes. He’s nine.” He pushed the door open and shut it behind him before Simon or Clary could say anything more.  
  
  
  
  
Jonathan was relatively unhurt, to her overwhelming relief. His shirt was torn and there was some dark dried blood on his face, but the Inquisitor had not hurt him.  
  
He sat on the edge of the thin cot of his cell, looking down at his boots. He did not see her approach—though that side of the glass was two-way, it was mostly soundproofed, so he did not hear her approach.  
  
Izzy knocked urgently on the glass and Jonathan startled. His mouth formed her name and he was at the glass in an instant.  
  
 _How are you here?_ his lips said, though she could hear no sound. She realized he had not actually spoken—everything in the cell was recorded.   
  
_I caught Duncan cheating on his girlfriend with a seelie at the Hunter’s Moon—_ she cut herself off. _It doesn’t matter. I don’t have a lot of time, but I’ll get you out of here._  
  
Jonathan shook his head. _In my desk, second drawer,_ he mouthed. _Before the Inquisitor gets there. It’ll tell you everything._   
  
Izzy heard faint footsteps and checked over her shoulder. “I’ll be back,” she said, quietly enough she doubted he could hear. Then she ran, glad she carved the silencing rune into her ankle, through the cell blocks until she’d reached the exit.  
  
She all but ran to Jonathan’s room, across from hers at had been for years. There was no one outside it, not yet—she threw the door open, wrenching open the second drawer of his desk and rooting around. Pencils, pens—there, at the back. Her fingers closed around a thick envelope and she pulled it out.  
  
 _To Isabelle_ it read in Jonathan’s awful, spindly writing.  
  
Izzy went over to the bed and tore open the envelope, absently touching Jonathan’s favorite sweater where it lay pooled on the bed. The envelope contained pages and pages of writing, and nothing else. Izzy tucked them back into the envelope to read later—  
  
“Miss Lightwood? Do you care to explain what you’re doing in Mr. Morgenstern’s bedroom?”  
  
Izzy started, grabbing Jonathan’s sweater before turning around. “I was looking for my other shoe,” she said. “I thought I left it here.”  
  
The Inquisitor looked around Jonathan’s room with a raised brow. A couple of Izzy’s shirts and indeed, a few of her shoes were strewn around with the rest of his belongings. “And the item you’re holding?”  
  
“My sweater,” Izzy said, putting just enough of a _duh_ inflection into her voice to be credible. “I took it off. Do you want to see it?”  
  
If she said yes and found the letter, Izzy was going to be in some very, very deep shit.  
  
“Please leave, Miss Lightwood,” the Inquisitor said. “And do not return looking for other lost items.”  
  
“Yes, ma’am,” Izzy said, then rushed past her and two of the Clave shadowhunters and into the hall. She darted into her own room and locked the door, then ducked behind her bed for extra measure and threw the sweater aside, pulling out the letter from the envelope.  
  
And wrinkled her nose. The first few lines were legible— _Dear Isabelle,_ —it began, but after the first page or so it quickly devolved into spidery scribbles that could barely be called language. His handwriting was not the best to begin with, and it seemed he had been writing with great haste.  
  
And, a remote part of her brain supplied, only she could have a hope of reading it.  
  
With a deep sigh, Izzy flattened out the first page and began to read.  
  
  
  
  
Alec dropped onto his bed, resisting the temptation to groan like a ten-year-old. He’d tried training but it had done nothing but increase his restlessness and sense of helplessness. Jace was kidnapped by some crazy ex-shadowhunter, Max was missing Angel knew where, Jonathan was in the cell block, and Izzy was barricading herself in her room, and the two mundanes—whatever their names were—were probably terrified out of their mundie minds, and all Alec could do was _stress_ about it.  
  
Jace he could do little about, which made him want to explode. Same with Max. Until he was allowed outside the Institute, all he could do was marinate in worry. Jonathan—Alec didn’t really know what that was about, but he doubted he could help him much, unless he went to speak with the Inquisitor to help clear his case. Izzy—well, he’d tried knocking on her door, but she hadn’t even responded. He tried not to be hurt. He supposed he could go talk to the mundanes, but the thought alone made him cringe. The guy, Simon, asked too many stupid questions, and the girl, Clary, just glared at him like he’d personally shoved her mother off a cliff.  
  
Annoying mundanes or Inquisitor Herondale. Alec’s actionable options didn’t look very promising. He could also go comfort his parents. The thought alone filled him with dread, so he put it out of mind.  
  
His last option, of course, was to lie here and refuse to move. It was very tempting.  
  
Alec pushed himself off his bed, picking up a picture of him and Jace Izzy had taken with the mundane camera Robert had brought her. Jace had a huge, shit-stirring grin on his face, his arm slung over Alec’s shoulders. Alec himself looked slightly pained, but Izzy had told him that was the closest he’d gotten to a proper smile.  
  
Jace was alive. Alec knew it. He could feel Jace as strongly as ever, and it was the only reason he hadn’t gone entirely crazy yet.  
  
Alec went to the door and opened it, looking over to Izzy’s door. It was still shut. Opposite, shadowhunters he didn’t recognize moved in and out of Jonathan’s room, holding boxes. The Inquisitor herself emerged and Alec jerked back inside his room, grabbing the door and attempting to shut it as quietly as possible—  
  
“Mr. Lightwood. If I could speak with you.”  
  
Alec swore silently, then pulled the door open and stepped out. “Of course, madam Inquisitor,” he said, in his most polite tones. “I am entirely at your disposal.”  
  
She beckoned him closer. “Mr. Starkweather assures me you are the most responsible young man among your peers.”  
  
“I certainly try to be, ma’am.” Alec drew closer, until they could speak comfortably. He attempted to whip all his flagging wits to bear—he had to be careful what he told her.  
  
“What can you tell me about Jonathan Morgenstern?”  
  
Alec thought a moment before answering. “He’s very quiet, ma’am. Unassuming.”  
  
The Inquisitor’s eyebrows raised. “Hardly a Morgenstern trait, I should think. Does he ever speak of his father?”  
  
Alec frowned. “You mean—you mean Valentine?” Before the Inquisitor could vituperate him for stalling, he said, “Not really. As I said before, he’s quiet. But the only times he’s spoken of Valentine specifically he just said he was dead.”  
  
“Convenient, isn’t it?” the Inquisitor said. “That Valentine’s son is the greatest insister that he is dead.”  
  
Before Alec could answer, Maryse appeared at his side. “Alec,” she said. “There you are. Why don’t you go join your sister?”  
  
Alec knew an order when he heard it. “Of course,” he said, then nodded to the Inquisitor. “Pardon me, ma’am.”  
  
He knocked on Izzy’s door, harder than before. “Izzy? It’s me, Alec.” No answer. Just when he was about to try again, the door swung open and Izzy appeared, her smile as fake as he’d ever seen it, aimed over his shoulder at Maryse and the Inquisitor.  
  
“Alec,” she said. “Come in. I’ve just been reading up on portal tracking.”  
  
She moved aside and Alec stepped inside, shutting the door behind him.  
  
“Izzy,” he hissed. “What’s going on? Why are they searching Jonathan’s room?”  
  
Izzy _shh_ ’ed him and carved a quick silencing rune into the door with her stele. “I have no idea,” she hissed back, once she’d returned to his side. “All I know is that Herondale hates him. Apparently she was the one to question him before he came to the Institute, when he was a kid, and she wasn’t very nice about it. She’s convinced he’s Valentine’s son, and out to kill everyone or something.”  
  
“Is he?”  
  
“Out to kill everyone? Alec, you’ve met him. I once caught him upset over killing a centipede.”  
  
“No. Valentine’s son.”  
  
Izzy lowered her eyes. “I think so,” she said. “But like Jace says, it hardly matters. He’s more a Lightwood than a Morgenstern.”  
  
Alec’s eyebrows raised. “Izzy, he’s not one of us.”  
  
“Why not? Because mom and dad hate him? We adopted Jace, didn’t we? Why not Jonathan?”  
  
“Because of that whole part where he was probably raised by Valentine,” Alec replied. “Izzy, I know you care about him, but can you blame the Inquisitor for being suspicious? Sure, she may take it too far, but if Valentine is back, we can’t trust him.”  
  
“Why not?” Izzy demanded. “Alec, he hates Valentine more than anyone.”  
  
“How can you know that? Because he told you? I can say I’m a seelie, Izzy, but it doesn’t make it true.”  
  
“Just trust me, Alec!” Izzy snapped. “Can’t you just trust me?”  
  
A chord of suspicion struck in Alec. “Izzy, if there’s something you’re not telling me, for Max, for Jace—“  
  
“Of course not,” Izzy said. “Alec, he’s my _parabatai_. I know him better than anyone. I know him better than I know Jace, or Max. He’s not behind this.”  
  
Alec raked a hand through his hair. “Okay. Fine. Next topic: what are we going to do with the mundanes we’re technically hiding from the Inquisitor?”  
  
“ _Hiding_?” Izzy’s voice raised an octave. “What do you mean?”  
  
“Mom didn’t tell her about them,” Alec said. “Just said we caught wind of Valentine and the Cup and found the rogue shadowhunter—Jocelyn—and some demons and Circle members. They’re in a guest room on the fifth floor. I took them up there while Herondale was arresting Jonathan.”  
  
Izzy’s expression was furious. “And you left them there? Did you feed them? They must be terrified out of their minds!”  
  
“I gave them takeout,” Alec said, offended Izzy thought him so heartless. “And answered some of their stupid questions. I told them to stay there until we came back.”  
  
Izzy groaned. “Alec, we’re going to have to tell Herondale about them sooner or later. Clary’s mother was a shadowhunter, and shadowhunter blood breeds true. She’s one, too. Raised as a mundane, sure, but the Clave is going to be all over her, especially if Valentine is back. She needs to know, and she needs to be prepared for Herondale to question her.” She paused. “Has the Inquisitor found Jonathan’s sixteenth birthday present?”  
  
Alec shrugged both shoulders. “How am I supposed to know? What was it?”  
  
“A copy of _Demons: Revealed_ ,” Izzy admitted.  
  
Alec’s eyebrows shot up. “You gave your _parabatai_ demon porn for his birthday?”  
  
“I thought it was funny!” Izzy said, defensively. “Granted, in retrospect, it seems a little less funny now.”  
  
“Let’s hope he got rid of it,” Alec said. “For multiple reasons. Also, where did you get it?”  
  
Izzy was unrepentant. “Meliorn.”  
  
“Figures.” Alec rubbed his forehead with his palm. “Okay, we have to go check on the mundanes, and figure out a way to present them to Herondale so she doesn’t burn them at the stake instantly.”  
  
  
  
  
Clary had promised herself she would grill the demon hunter boy, Alec, for answers as soon as he walked in the door, but now that she was face-to-face with Isabelle, her resolve weakened just slightly. “Where have you been?” she demanded, not nearly as rudely as she’d intended.  
  
“I’m sorry, Clary,” Isabelle said, her voice clear and calm. “Things have gotten complicated, as you saw. We’ll answer your questions best we can, but first we need to tell you some things.”  
  
“Unless it’s about my mother, I don’t want to hear it.” Clary crossed her arms over her chest to help her stay stubborn.  
  
“We think your mother was a shadowhunter like us,” Isabelle said. “So that means you are one, too. Whether your skin can hold runes or not, we don’t know, but you have Nephilim blood.”  
  
“Do you have any idea how insane you sound?” Clary demanded. “I let you take us here but you locked us in a room and babble on about angels and demons and vampires and werewolves—I don’t know who you think I am but you have it wrong, I just want my mom back and I hope you find your friend and your brother but it has _nothing_ to do with me and I just want to go home!”  
  
To her absolute horror, Clary choked out a sob, her eyes going very blurry and hot. She would _not_ cry now, not when she promised herself she wouldn’t, but the tears were spilling out and she couldn’t possibly stop them now.  
  
Isabelle put a hand on Clary’s arm. “I know it’s a lot to take in, and I’m sorry about your mother,” she said, her voice kind. “I wish we could have gotten her back hours ago, and I’m sorry I couldn’t make everyone go look for her. But unfortunately if your Mom’s right about Valentine, so many more lives than hers—and our brothers’—could be at stake.”  
  
Clary rubbed her face with her hands and pushed her hair back with her fingers, grief and terror breaking through the icy numbness she’d felt for the last few hours. “I don’t understand,” she whispered. “Any of this. I’m not one of you, whatever you are. I’m just an art student. I want to be an artist, or teach art, not stab the spawn of hell and save humanity.”  
  
“It sounds pretty cool when you put it that way,” Simon muttered, mostly to himself.  
  
“And neither of us want to drag you into more than you need to be involved in,” Isabelle assured her. “But if what your mom said about Valentine is true, we’ll need to talk to you. You’re the most likely person to help us find her, if she’s in as much danger as she says she is.”   
  
“What do I do to help her?” Clary asked.  
  
Isabelle took a deep breath, and smiled reassuringly. “You remember that woman who showed up? The Inquisitor?”  
  
“Yeah, she was terrifying,” Simon interjected. “Like, more terrifying than my grade two homeroom teacher, and she screamed at me for letting the class pet out of its cage. Which I didn’t even do, by the way.”  
  
“We need to have her interview you,” Isabelle said. “Which is okay, because the truth is on your side. You’re innocent in all this. The only problem is she’s a raging bitch.”  
  
“Isabelle!” Alec exclaimed, aghast.   
  
“Well, it’s true,” Isabelle said. “But she’s in charge, and we have to convince her to look for your mother. Since she’s a shadowhunter, and apparently one my mother knew, it shouldn’t be that hard to convince her.”  
  
“And if she won’t look for my mom?”  
  
“Then we’ll get you to Luke Garroway, like your mother said,” Isabelle said. “I promise you, Clary.”  
  
Clary nodded, resolute. “Okay. So you’ll help me figure out what to say to the Inquisitor woman, and I’ll speak to her and convince her to help my mom and your friend.”  
  
Isabelle nodded in return. “That’s the plan.”  
  
Clary sat down on the steamer trunk, arms crossed over her chest. “All right. Let’s get started.”  
  
  
  
  
“Where is Valentine?”  
  
Jonathan grit his teeth in a vain effort to keep his temper. After years and years of suppressing it, pushing down on himself until he felt everything about him was fabricated, it snapped out uncontrollably. “If I knew, I’d be there to put a sword in his throat.”  
  
Herondale stared him down, the steel grey of her eyes unmoved as her razor-thin mouth. “Somehow I have trouble believing you, Mr. Morgenstern.”  
  
“Then I doubt I’ll ever convince you.” Jonathan tried not to feel small in the interrogation chair, his wrists and ankles bound with leather to the steel frame. “Unfortunately torturing me won’t bring your son back.”  
  
Herondale’s steel eyes glinted, but she held herself back from the bait with obvious effort. Jonathan had not entirely inherited his father’s ability to taunt his way under anyone’s skin, but he could at least make an honest effort at it.  
  
“Your grandchild would be about my age now, wouldn’t they?” Jonathan continued, settling back in the interrogation chair as if it were a lounge armchair. “I wonder if they’d be blonde, like me. Or dark-haired, like Stephen. That was his name, wasn’t it?”  
  
Blinding pain seared Jonathan’s face and he cried out, his skin hot and cool at once. He was bleeding, and could feel himself grimacing, and probably looked like a grinning demon. It was all Herondale ever saw in him anyway.  
  
She flicked Jonathan’s blood off the blade of her dagger, as if the herons carved into the blade could not be sullied with his taint. “That’s quite enough, Mr. Morgenstern.”  
  
He had her angry now, despite her impossibly cool exterior, and with enough well-placed jabs he figured he could really get under her skin, as she always had his. “If Valentine really is alive,” he said, his voice unstable in his throat, “why do you think you can defeat him when those closest to him failed? You _saw_ me put the dagger in his heart, Imogen. Maybe he’s immortal.”  
  
“Or perhaps you were simply your father’s accomplice, as I always said,” Herondale said crisply, though a muscle jumped in her jaw. “Ms. Inkfell, Mr. Sewell, please watch the prisoner while I take this call. And have him gagged when I return.”  
  
  
  
  
“So let me get this straight,” the boy mundane, Simon, said. “Raging asshole lady is going to question all of us alone, and she literally holds our lives and shit in her hands? And we just have to trust she’ll see reason and send help for Mrs. Fray and Jace, despite the fact she is, in fact, a raging asshole? How does this sound good, again?”  
  
Alec had to admit put that way, it didn’t sound like a very good plan. “You have any better ideas?”  
  
“No!” Simon exclaimed. “If I did, I wouldn’t be so freaked out!”  
  
Izzy sighed. “Look, I know it’s a lot to ask, but we wouldn’t take the risk unless we thought it would work. Herondale came here from Alicante specifically for Jace, and she won’t just abandon him if the Clave cares that much about him. If nothing else, that will motivate her to action.”  
  
Alec sighed. “All of this would be so much easier if we didn’t have Max to worry about as well.”  
  
“Max will be okay, Alec,” Isabelle said, firmly. “He’s a shadowhunter, and a Lightwood.”  
  
“Look, if it would help, we could ask Luke to help find Max,” Clary suggested. “He’s a police detective, and if your friend is right, also involved in all this stuff. He could track down your brother.”  
  
Alec was unconvinced. “Ask a werewolf’s help in a shadowhunter matter? We don’t do things that way around here.”  
  
Clary crossed her arms over her chest, even more stubborn than before. “If he can help your brother, why won’t you say yes? Luke’s the most honest person I know. He’ll do everything he can to find Max.”  
  
Before Alec could reply, Izzy doubled over, grasping at her forehead and gasping in pain.   
  
“Izzy!” Alec exclaimed, grabbing her arm. “Izzy, what’s wrong?”  
  
“Jonathan,” Izzy gasped. “They’re hurting him—“  
  
Alec’s stomach clenched. Using force against Jonathan without really any evidence at all was bad enough, but Izzy suffering because of it—that was another thing entirely. “Izzy—focus on here and now. You can block it out.”  
  
Jace had broken his leg once on a mission and Alec had been forced to learn how to block it out, and also how to set fractures off WikiHow until he could find a stele. It had not been a good day.  
  
“It’s gone,” Izzy said, sounding both angry and profoundly grateful. To Clary and Simon, who were staring at them as if they were insane, she said, “Some shadowhunters are bonded together as _parabatai_. It makes us stronger and more in tune to each other in battle, but it also has it’s drawbacks.”  
  
“You don’t say,” said Simon, who was pale as a sheet. “Shit’s fucked, dude.”  
  
At that moment the door burst open and Maryse rushed in. Immediately Alec knew something was deeply wrong—he’d never seen his mother look afraid. “Alec, Isabelle. Come immediately. You two, Clary and Simon, stay here.”  
  
Alec followed Izzy and his mother at a run, heart hammering in his chest. “Is it Jace—Max—?”  
  
Maryse stopped suddenly and Alec skidded to a halt in her tracks. Almost all the shadowhunters in the Institute were in the Incident room—so not that many—with Inquisitor Herondale at the head. A man stood in the center of the room, commanding such silence even with his hands clasped in front of him like a penitent. The image flickered and Alec quickly realized it was a spell, not a live man. Herondale was staring at the image as if her eyes alone could burn into the man across time and distance.  
  
“Is that—“  
  
“Valentine,” Izzy whispered back. She sounded floored, as if the air had been punched from her lungs. “Alec—that’s him.”  
  
Alec stared, his brain almost frozen. Valentine Morgenstern was less man than legend or monster in his mind, the ultimate bogeyman. He held himself with ultimate authority, built and looking like the ultimate soldier, dark eyes and close-cut hair, everything about him hard and unyielding.  
  
“I assume I need no introduction,” he said, and when he spoke Alec was again surprised, expecting a general’s bark or grating baritone. Instead, he sounded warm, almost reasonable, his face captivating when animated. “It has been so long since I’ve seen you all.”  
  
He was a leader. And one Alec couldn’t help but fear.  
  
“I always knew you were alive.” Inquisitor Herondale said, her voice sharp and brittle as a blade of diamond. “And now you’ve shown yourself. What do you want?”  
  
“Rather, what do _you_ want from _me_ ,” Valentine corrected, neither self-aggrandizing nor apologetic. His eyes turned to the Lightwoods when he said, “I trust you have noticed the absence of young Max Lightwood?”  
  
Izzy’s hand closed around Alec’s in a vice-like grip so strong it felt liable that his bones might break. Alec’s breath caught in his chest; he could feel every pound of his heartbeat in his eardrums.   
  
“You have him,” Maryse breathed, her voice faltering and breaking. “You have Max.”  
  
“I have no wish to harm him,” Valentine said, and he sounded so truthful when he said it. “Like Imogen, I know the value of a son. Which is why I ask for one in return.”  
  
Herondale’s glare was like a blade of adamas. “If your son is what you desire, you shall never have him. I will take whatever he knows of your plans by force and scatter his bones in the dirt.”  
  
Some remote, still-functioning part of Alec’s brain wondered if the Inquisitor was quite sane.  
  
If this pronouncement affected Valentine at all, he didn’t show it. In fact, he looked almost amused, as if they were all playing a game of Scrabble that only he knew the rules to. “If you’re referring to Jonathan, you’re welcome to do with him as you wish,” Valentine said, and for the first time his voice sounded harsh. “It is not him I want in exchange for Max’s life. I want Jace Wayland.”  
  
Alec blinked, shock tingling in his fingers—or maybe that was Izzy cutting of his circulation. _Jace_. Why would Valentine want _Jace_? He could never brainwash Jace into joining him, so even Jace’s skills would do Valentine no good.  
  
“You won’t have him either.” This time, Alec was shocked to hear Maryse speak. “Jace is my son, too. I won’t trade one son for the other.”  
  
A wave of anger crossed Valentine’s face, gone as soon as it appeared. “You have twenty-four hours to confirm that you will bring Jace to me—I know how the Clave loves to dither—to keep Max alive. Twenty-four hours after that to bring me Jace and have Max returned to you. Is that understood?”  
  
“You can’t believe the Clave will consider your demands,” Herondale scoffed, though hate still burned in her eyes. “We would never grant you your own son, let alone someone else’s.”  
  
At that Valentine’s expression turned, not to anger as Alec had expected, but into something resembling bitterness. “Ah yes. Jonathan. I almost forgot.” His voice was entirely steady as he said, “I want him dead.”  
  
Izzy’s grip on Alec’s hand, impossibly, tightened. Alec squeezed it back, though the comforting gesture did nothing.  
  
Herondale looked outright incredulous. “So he can’t tell us your plans?”  
  
“Jonathan’s birth was a mistake,” Valentine said simply, and his voice was suddenly rich with such emotion that Alec could not help but listen. “He is not Nephilim. Lilith’s blood runs through his veins, not the Angel’s. Since I cannot kill him myself, I must demand the Clave do so instead.”  
  
Whatever pronouncement Herondale had expected, this was not it. “That’s an impossibility,” she insisted, looking perhaps even more pale than before.  
  
Valentine’s hard, dark eyes did not flinch away. “Twenty-four hours, Inquisitor,” he said, then vanished.  
  
For a long moment the foyer was quiet. There wasn’t much to do when your worst collective nightmare comes to pass, the impossible thing you had all been dreading becoming real. Alec felt his mother’s arms around him, around Izzy, but only numbly. Jace was missing. Max would soon be dead. Valentine had returned. Even Jonathan was, if Valentine was to be believed, a demon, and the Clave could never let him live, knowing that.  
  
“Prepare a Portal to Alicante immediately.” the Inquisitor’s voice knifed through the quiet. “And prepare Jonathan Morgenstern for transport. I will notify the Clave of what has transpired.”  
  
Then, as if picking the absolute worst possible moment, a voice declared, “Inquisitor Herondale. I must speak with you.”  
  
Alec and Izzy shared a look of absolute horror. The mundane girl and her sidekick were standing in the doorway, looking determined and absolutely stupid.  
  
Looking pale and tight-lipped, Mayrse stepped in before they could send everything even further to hell. “Madam Inquisitor, this is Clarissa Fairchild. Jocelyn Fairchild’s daughter. My children encountered her on a routine mission and learned from her that  Jocelyn believed Valentine had returned and was searching for the Mortal Cup.”  
  
“Very well,” Herondale said sharply. “They’ll accompany us to Alicante. The Council will want to hear their testimony.”  
  
And with that she turned on her heel and strode away. Alec watched her go with a horrible, sinking feeling in his gut.  
  
“Fuck,” he muttered.  
  
  
  
  
  
“I haven’t heard anything about Clary and Simon,” Alec reported glumly, flopping onto Izzy’s comforter. It was stiflingly hot in Alicante, and unfortunately the Lightwood manor did not have air conditioning. Izzy could barely think about such things. She’d paced a hole in her favorite rug already, and it had only been a few hours.  
  
“And Jonathan?”  
  
Alec looked away apologetically, as if everything that was happening was his own doing. “He’s scheduled for audience with the Council tomorrow morning. They’ll use the Soul Sword on him. As long as he tells the truth, he’ll be okay.”  
  
Alec clearly meant this to be a comforting sentiment, but the thought was like the knives in her stomach whenever she thought about Max, alone and if he had any sense, scared out of his mind. The truth was the very last thing the Clave wanted to hear, generally but especially in this case. “They can’t do this. Jonathan hasn’t hurt anyone. They’d believe _Valentine_ over him, even if he is Valentine’s son? Valentine could have said _Jace_ was a demon, what if everyone had believed him?”  
  
“They have to be sure,” Alec said. “Look, Izzy, it’s a hard time for the Clave. We have to be lenient on judging their decisions.”  
  
“Yes, but since when has the Clave been lenient on us?” Izzy snapped. Realizing the bitterness in her tone, and the partial surprise in Alec’s eyes, she backtracked with a weak smile. “Sorry. Emotions are high.”  
  
“No, don’t apologize.” Alec took Izzy’s hand, halting her mid-pace. “As it is, I’m barely keeping up with Jace being missing. I can’t imagine how I’d feel if he were in Jonathan’s position.”  
  
Izzy swallowed. Jace was another can of emotion she’d barely cracked into yet. “Can you feel him out there?”  
  
“Yeah,” said Alec, with a sort of uneasy smile. “He’s alive. Otherwise, do you really think I’d be here, not listening to Bon Jovi records and breaking shit?”  
  
Izzy surprised herself and Alec by laughing, a real snort of laughter. “The incident that refers to has been stricken from the record.”  
  
“Your record, maybe.” Alec was sort of half-grinning now. “Not mine.”  
  
Izzy couldn’t even remember what she’d been upset about, but once at the tender age of fourteen Alec had happened upon her in the kitchen, blaring Bon Jovi from her phone and smashing empty bottles with a broom. In retrospect, it had been embarrassing for everyone involved, and of course Alec never failed to bring it up.  
  
The sound of the door opening sounded below and voices floated up the stairs, audible even through Izzy’s bedroom door. Izzy’s heart leapt. “Is that Simon and Clary?”  
  
Alec looked significantly less excited. “Sounds like them.”  
  
“Robert must have gotten the Inquisitor to release them.” Izzy made for the door, throwing it open and rushing down the stairs.  
  
Clary and Simon stood in the foyer, looking rather terrified. At the sight of her and Alec both their faces brightened and Izzy’s heart lightened, just a little.  
  
“Thank the Angel you’re all right,” Izzy breathed, pulling Clary into a tight hug. Beside her, Alec and Simon opted for a tasteful handshake. “After you burst into the incident room, I was scared the Inquisitor would arrest you. What happened? Are you okay?”  
  
“I’m fine,” Clary said, her voice a little shaky, but her wan smile was genuine. “Your father explained to us what happened. About Valentine, I mean. I’m so sorry, Isabelle—I just got so caught up with my mother disappearing, and everything’s just so—I don’t know, I just completely forgot to think what was happening.”  
  
Izzy let her go with a smile. “You don’t need to apologize. Your life got turned upside down.” She frowned. “Has anyone got you a fresh set of clothes?”  
  
Robert looked slightly apologetic. “I was hoping you could give her some.”  
  
Now Izzy’s spirits _did_ brighten. “Of course. Alec, give Simon a fresh change of clothes. Clary, with me.”  
  
She took Clary’s hand and started up the stairs. “What do you feel like wearing? I have everything. I’m guessing you don’t want a ball gown, but if the mood really strikes I have a few—“  
  
Clary’s eyes widened at the sight of her room—or more accurately, her closet. “Um—uh, just something comfortable,” she said, eyeing Izzy’s shoe collection as if they were instruments of torture.  
  
Izzy pouted. “But comfortable isn’t _fun_.”  
  
Clary offered a slightly shy smile. “I don’t get the impression there’s many hot clubs in Alicante.”  
  
Izzy pulled a face. “You got that right. Idris is so _boring_. If it wasn’t where all the good weapons are, I wouldn’t be caught dead here.”  
  
Clary laughed. “I’m grateful to the weapons, then.” She touched the material of Jonathan’s favorite sweater, where it lay next to her on Izzy’s bed. “May I borrow this?”  
  
Izzy hesitated. Clary, reading her expression, looked mortified. “Sorry,” she said quickly. “Anything’s fine, really.”  
  
“No, no, I’m sorry,” Izzy replied. “It’s Jonathan’s, but it doesn’t matter. He wouldn’t mind. It might be a bit big on you, though.” She held it up to Clary’s shoulders, and indeed, the hem hit her mid thigh. “I have training leggings, you can wear it with that. And fluffy slippers.”  
  
Izzy was of the opinion that fluffy slippers cured all ills, if they were fluffy enough.  
  
“Thank you so much,” Clary said, sounding relieved, as if she had been worried she’d offended Izzy forever and ever. “Actually, could I take a shower, too? I’m worried I reek.”  
  
Izzy tossed her a Lush bath bomb, which she caught. “Right this way.”  
  
  
  
  
Izzy barely slept that night. Granted, she was pretty sure the only person in the house who did was Simon, whose snores she could hear all the way from the spare bedroom. But she couldn’t help but think she had more problems than everyone else.  
  
That biggest problem, right now, was the letter tucked under her pillow, and its contents burning like a fire-message in her mind. What Jonathan had said was incomprehensible, so utterly impossible it couldn’t be true. She had never thought he’d lie to her, but it seemed he had done nothing but, and she was no longer sure what to believe.   
  
She wished Jace was here, so she’d at least have someone to be mad at that wasn’t the high Inquisitor of the Clave or the most wanted shadowhunter in the world.  
  
Above all else, her _parabatai_ rune burned and throbbed, as if it itself knew the danger Jonathan faced. She clamped her hand over it and buried her face in her pillow. Max would be okay. Jace would be okay. They would find Clary’s mother, and Valentine would be defeated, and the truth would will out.  
  
What exactly that truth was, she supposed she would find out.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey so I started this before reading TDA and as such there's some stuff about the parabatai bond that's uh.....inaccurate. I sort of assumed you could remove a parabatai rune like Jace removes Valentine's circle rune in the show and that's...totally wrong but I can't really remove it from the story going forward so....keep that in mind lol and sorry!!

At the sight of Jonathan Izzy’s heart leapt into her throat. Her father and Victor Aldertree stood behind him, Inquisitor Herondale leading him forwards onto the dais at the center of the Council room, surrounded by inlaid stars. _Metallarch_ was in her hands. She couldn’t see Jonathan’s face but she could see his fear in his ultra-rigid posture. He wore grey Guard coveralls that were a bit too short and no shoes—she supposed that they were now considered deadly weapons—and runed chains around his wrists and ankles.   
  
“Jonathan Morgenstern,” the Inquisitor said, and her voice echoed impressively in the Council hall. The Council was alight with whispers and murmurs, all eyes sharp and hostile on Jonathan. “Extend your hands to receive the Mortal Sword.”  
  
He hesitated, and Izzy’s hands clenched into fists at her side. Then, very slowly, he extended his hands, palms upright, as far apart as his chains would allow. The Inquisitor laid the blade on his hands and Jonathan gasped, as if it burned him.  
  
“State your name and age for the record,” Herondale ordered.  
  
“Jonathan Morgenstern. Twenty.” Jonathan’s voice sounded strained, and even from afar she could see the torment on his face.  
  
“Are you Valentine Morgenstern’s son?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Another wave of murmurs—this was an old rumor, never confirmed to the public. Izzy heard Jocelyn Fairchild’s name, Valentine’s, even Luke Garroway’s and Maryse and Robert’s.   
  
“And is your father’s claim that you possess demonic blood correct?”  
  
Jonathan halted a moment, as if fighting against the Sword’s influence. Then he said, “Yes.”  
  
Beside her, Alec gasped. All around him, shadowhunters did the same, murmurs and even a few shouts passing overhead. A demon-blooded shadowhunter was an impossibility, not to mention outright blasphemy.   
  
“Tell the Council how you came to be captured by the Clave.”  
  
A few painful seconds passed by. Alec looked confused and lost; others around them were angry, scared, muttering amongst themselves.   
  
“When I was eight my father was being hunted by the Clave.” Jonathan’s voice was taut, tortured, as if someone had driven a knife into his back and was twisting it. Still, his phrasing was as robotic and emotionless as Google translate. “He had evaded capture for two years after the overthrow of the Circle. He hated me and I hated him. During a conflict with the Clave’s shadowhunters I took the Morgenstern family dagger he had given me and stabbed him in the heart. Eight shadowhunters witnessed the event, including Inquisitor Herondale, Jia Penhallow, Artemis Harkhaven, Diana Wrayburn, Maryse and Robert Lightwood, and two others who are now dead. I was taken to the New York Institute led by Hodge Starkweather, where I have lived until the present.”  
  
Alec’s eyes were wide and his brows drawn down in confusion and suspicion. “Maryse and Robert never told us,” he whispered to Izzy, barely audible over the muttering of the Council. “Hodge never told us.”  
  
The Inquisitor silenced the Council hall with a wave of her hand. “As you all know, Valentine Morgenstern is not dead. He kidnapped Max Lightwood, a child of nine, and demands we turn over Jace Wayland to him in exchange for Max’s life.”  
  
At the mention of her brothers’ names, Izzy’s stomach clenched. Clary’s hand curled around hers, soft and warm.  
  
“Why Jace Wayland?” Consul Penhallow asked. “And where is he? His location has not been confirmed.”  
  
“Jocelyn Fairchild is believed to have kidnapped Jace for reasons unknown,” the Inquisitor said, and gasps spread through the hall at Jocelyn’s name. “Why she or Valentine want him is not known to us.” She turned to Jonathan, who was looking at her with plain, uncomplicated hatred and terror. “Perhaps their son knows. What does Valentine want with Jace Wayland?”  
  
Pain seared through their _parabatai_ bond and Izzy gasped, pain splitting her head and digging into her gut, piercing through her hands. Alec was calling her name and holding her shoulders. She could not see Jonathan but she knew his hands were bleeding from gripping the Sword. His breathing was coming in ragged gasps; her father and Aldertree had to hold him upright to keep him from falling to his knees.  
  
“Jace—“ Jonathan broke off, making hideous, choking noises. Both Alec’s hands were gripping hers; he looked white as a sheet.   
  
“Jace wasn’t raised by Michael Wayland. He—Valentine—“ Jonathan gave a cry of pain, as if every word was being torn from him. “Valentine raised him. Loved him. Jace’s powers—he has pure angel blood. Injected—Jace didn’t know, he was too young. The same training Valentine gave me, he gave Jace.”  
  
Jonathan’s voice sounded broken, as if the Sword’s compulsion had bent his will entirely. The pain had subsided but Izzy’s every instinct was to leap from her seat and run to Jonathan’s side—and, preferably, punch whoever got in her way.  
  
Alec looked shocked, his head shaking back and forth. “That can’t be right. Jace would have known if he were raised by Valentine. We would all know.”  
  
Izzy wanted to snap that appearances could be deceiving, but thought that cruel, so she said nothing. Alec was glaring at the Inquisitor as if she’d personally caused all his ills—a welcome sight, as in Izzy’s opinion he gave far too many fucks about authority.  
  
The Council hall, in the meantime, had gone completely to hell. Maryse had stood up and was having a shouting match with an older shadowhunter Izzy didn’t recognize. Shouts were being hurled from every side of the room, as if the combined revelations that Valentine was alive and had not only one son but two were too much for them.  
  
“Where is Valentine now?” The Inquisitor’s voice knifed through the chaos, silencing the crowd.  
  
“I don’t know.” Jonathan’s voice was barely loud enough to be heard.  
  
“Where is Jocelyn Fairchild?”  
  
“I don’t know.  
  
The Inquisitor’s glare was unrelenting. “Where is Jace Wayland?”  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
Despite the Soul Sword in Jonathan’s hands, Herondale looked unconvinced. “Is Valentine Jace’s father?”  
  
At that last question, Jonathan’s head lifted, his face twisted into an ugly mask of hatred mixed with...triumph. “No.” His black eyes were fixed on the Inquisitor with feverish intensity. “Jace’s parents were Celine and Stephen Herondale.”  
  
  
  
  
“Jocelyn! What a marvelously unwelcome surprise.” Magnus eyed her bloodstained appearance and overall presence with undisguised displeasure. She dragged a half-conscious blond boy behind her; by the copious yet tasteless amount of leather he was wearing, he was also nephilim. “My, how little Clary has...grown.”  
  
“I need you to de-activate his tracking rune.” Jocelyn’s voice was hard, unyielding, almost arrogant. There was something about her that had always bothered him—was that she’d been married to a would-be genocidal maniac, or that she insisted on bludgeoning her daughter’s memory into submission to avoid awkward questions? He’d never decided.  
  
“Not even a please these days,” Magnus sighed, and pushed open the door. “Very well. But it’ll cost you.”  
  
Jocelyn’s jaw set, even as she dragged the half-conscious boy into his living room. “Magnus, Valentine has returned. He’s after the Cup. You know what this means for all of us.”  
  
“Yes. It means downworlders will die at a shadowhunter’s hands and the Clave will do nothing—not a change, really—and those of us with the means will take rather extended vacations into another dimension until the dust has settled.” He raised a glass her way. “Mimosa?”  
  
Jocelyn crossed her arms over her chest. “What will it cost?”  
  
Magnus thought a moment. “Dinner with Dot—provided the lovely lady is willing—and a promise that you’ll never show up on my doorstep again.”  
  
Jocelyn blinked. “I can’t promise that.”  
  
Magnus raised his eyebrows and spread his hands as if in apology. “Then I’m terribly sorry. My services don’t come cheap. May I suggest the Jiffy Magic around the corner? I’ve heard if you’re lucky they actually manage a few cheap sparks or two.”  
  
“Magnus.” There was an edge to Jocelyn’s voice that caught his attention. “This is—this is Jonathan. Jonathan Christopher.”  
  
Something rather cold slipped through Magnus’ gut. “Ah. Well.” He cracked his knuckles, eyeing the just-stirring boy with a mixture of pity and trepidation. He didn’t look that much like Jocelyn or the Morgenstern bastard, but genetics were a wild rollercoaster. “Fine. Let Lucian owe me a favor and we’re even.”  
  
Before Jocelyn could disagree he arranged the boy on the couch, drawing the boy’s eyes closed with a wave of his hand. A few more soundless incantations and he was deeply asleep, blond head lolling on Chairman Meow’s favorite cushion.  
  
“This will take a few hours,” Magnus warned, with a vague wave of his hand. “The Clave can’t track him while he’s not fully conscious, but they will when he wakes up. Make yourself comfortable, if you must.”  
  
  
  
  
“What the fuck,” Alec said, without any real inflection. They’d been thrown from the Council room, which Izzy resisted with yelling and kicking, and were now wandering around the halls somewhat aimlessly. “ _What the fuck_.”  
  
“My feelings exactly, but mostly because I don’t know what any of it means,” Simon agreed amicably.   
  
Alec whirled on him. “Well, if you need a summary, Izzy’s _parabatai_ is a demon, Jace is shadowhunter royalty and was also raised by Angel Hitler, oh yeah, and our parents and everyone else have been lying about pretty much _everything_. Not even getting started on Jonathan, who has probably told the truth to us once, on accident.”  
  
Simon’s eyes widened. “Okay, well when you put it that way I gotta agree that sounds pretty fucked.”  
  
“It’s been twelve hours already,” Izzy said. “We don’t have time for this. Once Valentine realizes we don’t even know where Jace is, he’ll kill Max. We can’t even try to trap or trick him.”  
  
Clary’s head was in her hands. “I don’t understand why my mom would take him. She doesn’t even know him.”  
  
“She knows Valentine,” Alec countered. “Maybe she wanted to take what she knew he wants.”  
  
“We don’t know she knows Valentine ever met Jace,” Izzy said. “What makes less sense to me is why she didn’t recognize Jonathan, if he’s Valentine’s son.”  
  
“She may not have seen him,” Simon offered. “Or she grabbed Jace because hey, all blondes look alike.”  
  
Clary glared at him. He looked apologetic. “Is there anything we can do? If we can get a cell signal I can call Luke. Maybe he knows something about why my mom took Jace, or how to get them back.”  
  
Alec sighed, rubbing at the growing headache in his skull. “There are no cell towers in Idris. Everything depends on the Council’s deliberations. If they send out looking for Jace, there’s the risk Valentine will realize we don’t have him and kill Max outright. If we don’t look for him, in twelve hours the same thing will happen. Either way, there’s not enough time to find Jace and set up a trap that will lead us to Max. Unless you know of a way to find your mother, fast, Max is dead.”  
  
“I—I’m sorry, I’ve thought about it and I just don’t know where she’d go.” Clary sounded miserable. “I thought I knew her so well, but it turns out I didn’t know the first thing about her. Every time I try to think of anything she may have mentioned about the shadow world, it’s just like there’s this big....block.”  
  
Alec frowned. “What did you say?”  
  
“I can’t remember anything related to the shadow world.” Clary looked confused. “What do you mean?”  
  
“Not even her runes?” Alec pulled up his sleeves. “They’d be faded, but do you recognize any of these symbols? You would have seen them on her, they’d be impossible to miss.”  
  
Clary shook her head. “My mom didn’t have any scars or tattoos like that.”  
  
“And she never mentioned Valentine’s name? Or the cup? Or even that your friend Luke was a werewolf?”  
  
Clary shook her head. “Nothing.”  
  
Izzy was looking at Clary with excitement. “There may be a block on your memory, Clary. You may know where to find Jocelyn.” She turned to Alec. “The Soul Sword is here, so that means the Silent Brothers are, too. Do you think they could get past the block, if there is one?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Alec said, mind whirring. “But it’s worth a try. We could ask our parents if they could get us an audience with the Silent Brothers when they get out of the Council—“  
  
“That’ll be hours,” Izzy replied. “We don’t have time. We’ll find them now, and hopefully they’ll understand the urgency.”  
  
The Council door burst open and shadowhunters flooded out. Alec watched them rush past in surprise—Council deliberations were never shorter than three hours, and it had only been two. He swore as Izzy dove into the tide, pushing his way to follow her with what felt like a hundred “sorry’s.”  
  
“Isabelle!” Maryse wore an expression that suggested knew what she had to say would not please her audience. Robert stood beside her, still in his robes—Jonathan nor the Inquisitor was nowhere in sight.  
  
“What happened?” Izzy demanded. “Why are the deliberations over?”  
  
“Valentine sent another message,” Robert said, looking grim. “He knows we don’t have Jace, and has changed his demands. He wants us to turn over Jonathan in the next twelve hours to keep Max and the new hostages he’s taken alive, and the Mortal Cup for their safe return.”  
  
Alec blanched. “But the Clave will never hand over the Cup.”  
  
“We know that,” Maryse said. Her voice sounded strained, as if she’d been shouting. “But if we agree to his first demand, or at least pretend to, we could track him back to Max and the others.”  
  
Hope leapt in Alec’s chest, but the fury in Izzy’s eyes smothered it quickly.   
  
“So not only is the Clave torturing Jonathan with the Sword like he’s the enemy, but also sending him to his death to save Valentine’s hostages,” Izzy said angrily. “I see how it is. So they’d never consider risking Jace, but Jonathan is fine?”  
  
“One of those hostages is your brother,” Robert snapped, and instantly Izzy’s ire rose.  
  
“You think I don’t know that?” She was nearly shouting now. “Jonathan is my brother too, in case you’d forgotten. Just as much as Jace is. Unless you’re disowning him now that everyone knows he was raised by Valentine, too.”  
  
“Isabelle.” Maryse’s tone was like steel, and deathly quiet. “We have not given up on Jace. And the Clave is not simply dealing with Valentine out of weakness. Among those he captured was the head of the Taipei Institute. There is only so long anyone can hold out against torture. We have to either rescue or destroy the hostages—Max included—before Valentine has the details of all our wards and numbers, as well as details of all the Institutes’ defenses.”  
  
Izzy, to her infinite credit, did not argue with that. She tipped her chin upwards, like she did as a kid when she and Alec would get caught in trouble. “I want to see Jonathan.”  
  
“The Inquisitor is questioning him.” Robert’s tone was apologetic. “Right now, he knows far more than anyone else, and we need all the information we can get.”  
  
“Torturing him, you mean.” Izzy’s voice had gone cold and steely, a sure sign of danger.   
  
Frustration crossed Robert’s face, and Alec felt torn between loyalty to his parents and his sister. “Use of _Metallarch_ is not torture, Isabelle. Jonathan suffered because he chose to resist questioning.”  
  
“He only resisted to protect Jace. Now that the Clave knows he was raised by Valentine, do you really think they’ll let him come home to us? Walk around freely? No, they’ll lock him up like they locked up Jonathan, and only keep the key in case they need him for something.” Izzy sounded bitter, more bitter than Alec had ever heard her.   
  
“He is also a Herondale,” Maryse pointed out, rather cynically. “Imogen won’t let her grandson rot in a jail cell.”  
  
Izzy threw up her hands in frustration. “Fine. Because being a royalty lab rat is so much better for Jace than being a regular lab rat. Has Herondale actually done anything to find him? Right now we have more leads on how to find him than she does, and she’s the one with infinite resources and the Soul Sword.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “You know, when Jonathan insisted we shouldn’t let Herondale test Jace’s powers, I told him not to worry. I told him our family wouldn’t let anything bad happen to Jace, no matter what. Looks like I was completely wrong.”  
  
Before either Robert or Maryse could reply, she whirled around and fled, out of the Council room and disappearing swiftly down the hall. Clary started after her, calling her name; Simon trailed after Clary, leaving Alec alone.  
  
“We’ll find Jace, Alec,” Maryse said. Her hand was on his shoulder, though it didn’t feel comforting.  
  
“I know,” Alec said, molding his face into an expression of certainty he didn’t feel. “I know we will.”  
  
  
  
  
  
The first thing Jace registered was a very nasty headache, like the worst hangover of his life combined with a two-by-four to the face. With effort, he forced his eyes open, wincing instantly at the light. Once he’d blinked a few times to adjust his vision, he could see an expanse of grey steel and rafters, like an empty warehouse. Beneath him was a thin, scratchy blanket that smelled of must and gasoline. He shivered; it was awfully cold.  
  
He looked around to either side and his heart seized in his chest. Alec—Isabelle, Jonathan, even the two mundanes—were nowhere to be seen. He was alone.  
  
With a weak groan, Jace pushed himself onto his side, quickly realizing his wrists and ankles were bound loosely with rope. Scowling, he tested his arms and legs for strength before he attempted to stand. His muscles trembled at the exertion but he managed to push himself upright—  
  
“Don’t move.”  
  
Jace reared back on reflex as a seraph blade appeared at his throat. “Woah, calm the fuck down!” he exclaimed, though his voice was raspy from dehydration. He craned his neck back to see a hard-looking woman with almost familiar red hair and something akin to burning hatred in her eyes glaring down at him.  
  
“How did you find us?” she demanded.  
  
“What?!” Jace exclaimed. “Listen, lady, whoever the fuck you are, you’re the one who kidnapped me and dragged me to an abandoned building. If anyone should be outraged, it’s me. Who the hell are you and what the hell do you want with me?”  
  
“You know who I am.” the woman replied, and great, she was completely delusional on top of batshit crazy and holding a sword to his throat. “How did you and Valentine find me?”  
  
“Valentine?” With his elbows, Jace felt at his sides for any weapons in his pockets, and found none. “Look, I met this mundane girl who could see us glamored, and she got this phone call from her mom saying Valentine was back and wanted the Cup, and she dragged us to her house and this psycho asshole pulled me into a Portal—“  
  
Jace broke off, squinting. “Wait a second. _You’re_ the psycho asshole. Was this a trap—? Goddamnit, Alec is going to roast my ass like a Christmas goose—”  
  
The woman shook her head, jaw set and expression like ice. “You aren’t fooling me. I saw you fight. I’d know that style anywhere. Your father trained you well and hid you even better, but he can’t hide you from me.”  
  
Jace halted, his breath catching in his chest. “You knew my father?”  
  
The woman looked at him long and hard, as if she might stare into his soul or pluck the thoughts from his head. “Yes. I did.” Another pause—her grip on the blade did not waver. “You don’t recognize me at all, do you.”  
  
Jace shook his head. “I’ve never met you in my life, before today. Look, I don’t know who you think I am, but you’ve got the wrong guy. No one knew my father, and I wasn’t looking for you or your daughter at all, it was a freak accident. You’re obviously nephilim, if you come back with me to the Institute we can help you hide from whoever you’re hiding from—“  
  
“Who do you think you are?” she asked, and her green eyes seemed to bore into his own.  
  
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”  
  
“Your name. Your father. Who raised you. Who you are.”  
  
Jace grit his teeth. There was only so much information he could give her, in case this was all some very absurd or clever trap, but the more quickly he got back to the Institute the faster he would know Alec and Izzy were all right—and they could start investigating the claim that Valentine had returned. “If I tell you, will you tell me how long it’s been since you kidnapped me?”  
  
The woman nodded.  
  
Jace settled back against the floor. “I’m Jace Wayland, and my father was Michael Wayland,” he said. “Maryse and Robert Lightwood raised me after he died when I was ten. I’m a shadowhunter at the New York Institute, and I really hate being hog-tied in warehouses.”  
  
“I’m sorry,  Jace,” she said, and there was something underneath the hardness that could possibly have been genuine. “I can see you really believe that. But that’s not who you are.”  
  
Jace scowled. “What, I’m really the great-great grandson of Freddie Mercury? I don’t even know you.”  
  
One hand shifted off the blade, and Jace was instantly tempted to make a move. Analysis quickly informed him there were no real viable moves to make, so he waited. The woman drew out her wallet from her coat pocket, then flipped it open and drew out an old, weathered photograph. Jace squinted to get a glimpse, but she knelt down—the blade shifting around to press upside his chin—and held it out for him to see.  
  
“Do you see your father?” she asked.  
  
Jace frowned, scanning the picture. Each person was much younger than his father had been, and were all smiling, which his father had done so rarely. But, to his discomfort, the man at the center was too familiar, the shape and intensity of his dark eyes and the contours of his face. “Yeah. At the center. Where did you get this?”  
  
The woman’s eyes were dark, and tired. “Your father is not Michael Wayland,” she said. “The man in this photo is Valentine Morgenstern, your father.” She pointed to the woman next to him, who Jace recognized instantly as her, younger and more carefree. She held a child in her arms, and the man who was his father had his hand on hers. “That’s me. I’m Jocelyn Fairchild, your mother. Our child is you. Jonathan Christopher Morgenstern.”  
  


  
  
“Izzy?”  
  
Clary’s voice. Izzy groaned internally. Not that she was unhappy to hear Clary’s voice—far from it, actually. But if she was here that meant Alec—and her parents—were not far behind.  
  
“I’m sorry for following you,” Clary said, and she sounded sincere. “And I’ll go away if you want. But if I were you I’d want someone with me, even if it was just to vent.”  
  
Izzy sighed. “No, it’s fine.” She popped open the siding of the cupboard where she’d been sulking in darkness. “You might as well sit down, my parents will be here shortly.”  
  
Clary sat down, pulling her knees to her chest. If Jonathan’s sweater had been over-large on him, it was absolutely monstrous on her. She’d rolled the sleeves back twice and still had sweater paws. It was very endearing. “I don’t know what a _parabatai_ bond really means,” she said. “But I know if I ever lost Simon, I’d go crazy. We’ve been friends since we were kids.”  
  
Izzy nodded. “Jonathan and I met when I was eight. He was ten.” Somehow, saying this to Clary felt good, and something tugged at her to continue. “Alec and Jace were out on a mission and I’d stayed behind, because I was younger than them and also a girl, and in case you hadn’t seen it yet, the Clave is stuck somewhere in 1950.”  
  
Clary grimaced. “Yeah. I’d noticed. When Alec said the Inquisitor had thrown Luke out, I couldn’t help but wonder if it was the werewolf thing, the being black thing, or if she’d somehow sniffed out the bisexual thing, too.”  
  
Izzy chuckled, imagining Herondale confronting such a no-doubt horrifying reality. “That sounds awful. I’m amazed she didn’t give up the ghost instantly.”  
  
Clary gave a lopsided smile, as if she were trying not to be amused. “You were telling me about Jonathan.”  
  
Izzy nodded, the swallowing over the lump in her throat. “So I was rage-sulking around the Institute, kind of like I am now, and I saw my parents and a bunch of other adults talking in hushed voices, and he was there.”  
  
She looked down, suddenly preoccupied with her nails, which were beginning to chip slightly. “That must have been after he killed—or tried to kill—Valentine. I didn’t know that, of course, I just knew he was a shadowhunter and that he was locked away in the Institute somewhere, which I apparently thought was just like my own situation. So I found out where they were keeping him and bullied Alec and Jace into creating a distraction so I could steal the key, and slipped inside.”  
  
Izzy smiled at the memory, though at the moment it felt beyond bittersweet. “The first thing I noticed about him was that he was angry, angrier than I was, which obviously isn’t that surprising now, but it was to me then. He didn’t talk at all, but I could see it. I’d brought him candy, because I was eight and that’s what you did as a peace offering, and they way he reacted you’d think I brought him ambrosia and nectar.”  
  
“We kept sneaking in to see him, and eventually the adults figured it out, probably because we kept bringing him food. We got in tons of trouble, but I didn’t care and neither did Jace, and Alec did everything Jace did, so we kept sneaking in, or at least trying. Eventually, once the Clave got bored of treating Jonathan like the reincarnation of Lucifer, they left his guard to Hodge, who either gave up trying to keep us out or took pity on him, I don’t really know which. Hodge is an ex-Circle member, and the Clave dealt with him pretty harshly, so he may have just felt sorry for Jonathan. Either way, he started letting him out to play with us—or rather, set shit on fire with us, because that’s the sort of thing we did for fun—and eventually let him train with us, too.”  
  
Izzy’s eyes were getting very warm, and Clary was looking at her in a way that made her feel a lot of very jumbled and confusing emotions, and she pushed the door open further with her foot to maybe get a cross-breeze or something. “When I asked him to be my _parabatai_ , he initially said no. I was hurt, but I also wasn’t going to take no for an answer, and when my parents found out and forbade me from doing it that just made me more determined.” Her stomach clenched at the thought and she had to push back against a wave of bitterness. “I guess they knew he was Valentine’s son, and didn’t want something like this to happen. Eventually, he said yes, and honestly Hodge must have sweet-talked the Clave into it, because I doubt they were exactly raring for it to happen.”  
  
She shifted uncomfortably, the _parabatai_ rune on her back throbbing and searing with heat. “He always pretended to be so normal when we grew up, and I resented him for that. Now, I just wish we could all go back.”  
  
She swallowed, and her throat was thick with emotion. Putting on a smile, she said, “Enough of that. This conversation isn’t passing the Bechdel test. Tell me about your childhood. If you really want, we could even find a couch for you to lie on.”  
  
Clary laughed. She had a really nice laugh, silvery but also a bit goofy. “Yeah, but neither of us can be replaced with a really sexy lamp.”  
  
Izzy pretended to be affronted, pressing a hand over her heart. “Excuse me, I am the _sexiest_ lamp.” She snapped her fingers. “Now don’t stall. Childhood angst. Now. Go.”  
  
Clary laughed. “I can’t just summon angst out of nowhere!”  
  
“Yeah you can. Just ask Alec. He broods on command.”  
  
“All right. Well, I never knew my dad, but that wasn’t really angsty. My mom showed me photographs of him—apparently his name was John Fray, and he was a soldier. But she’s all I really have, other than Luke, and she’s more than enough.” Clary tucked a stray hair out of her face, and that funny feeling returned. “She’s an artist, and she sells her paintings for a living. I’m really into art, too, except I draw more than I paint. Mom and I moved around a lot, but we didn’t usually stay away from New York long, because that’s where Luke lives.”  
  
“She had to be exceptionally clever, hiding from Valentine and the Clave for so long,” Izzy said, and it was true. “What do you like drawing?”  
  
“People, mostly.” Clary said. “Characterization is hard, but rewarding. To really capture someone on a page...well, it’s the greatest feeling in the world. My mom mostly does landscape—I guess for her, the challenge is to capture the emotion of it. Like the human aspect of it. Her work is beautiful. But melancholy.”  
  
Before Izzy could say anything, Alec’s voice called her name in the distance. Izzy groaned and rolled her eyes. “Here they come.”  
  
Alec himself rounded the corner a second later, looking winded. “There you are. What are you doing over here?”  
  
“Talking about periods,” Clary replied before Izzy could say anything. “Do you want to join us?”  
  
Alec’s eyebrows raised. “Uh, not particularly, no.”  
  
Izzy couldn’t stifle her amusement. “We were just talking, Alec,” she said. “But you can tell mom and dad I’m more calm now, and that no, I won’t be apologizing.” She stood up, and held out a hand to Clary and pulled her to her feet. “Thank you for listening, Clary.”  
  
Clary smiled in return. “Anytime.”  
  
  
  
  
“That’s not possible,” said Jace. Anger coursed through him, sharp and hot. “You’re lying. Why should I believe you? Anyone can photoshop something and claim some pudgy baby is me, I can’t fucking tell. My father was not Valentine. He was an honorable man. A good man. He loved me. He said my mother had died in childbirth. So whoever you are and whatever you want you’re not going to get it by lying to me, I’m not falling for it.”  
  
He took a deep, steadying breath. “Besides, I actually know a Jonathan. Everyone says he’s Valentine’s son. You got the wrong handsome blond, though I don’t blame you for picking me, I’m much better looking.”  
  
“You can do things other shadowhunters can’t.” Jocelyn’s voice was hard, unforgiving. “You’re faster, stronger, heal faster. Superhuman, even for Nephilim.”  
  
Jace swallowed. “What?”  
  
There was no triumph in Jocelyn’s eyes. “It’s true, isn’t it. You’re angry, too. All the time. You lash out, and you can’t help it, even if it’s cruel.”  
  
“Stop. You’re fucking crazy. I’m not Valentine’s son. There’s nothing special about me.” Jace’s breathing was coming fast and shallow; he felt panicked, as if he were cornered by a swarm of rats—or ducks. Jonathan—she’d called him Jonathan—she obviously meant him, everyone said he was Valentine’s son anyway—  
  
“Your father gave you pure demon blood before you were born.” Jocelyn’s voice was flat, unforgiving. “He injected it into me—into you. He wanted to make a shadowhunter like no other, stronger and better. Right away after you were born he knew he’d succeeded—and I knew he’d created something unspeakably evil.”  
  
Jace tried to apply the moniker “unspeakably evil” to Jonathan, and failed. It was a bit like calling a Shax demon sexy. He certainly wasn’t stronger and better than everyone else, either. Quite the opposite, really. And what had the Inquistor said? That Jace ‘had qualities never seen in a living Nephilim before’—? “That sounds like bullshit. Demon-shadowhunter babies are stillborn.”  
  
“In unions with demons and nephilim, yes. In your case, Lilith’s blood was infused directly into yours.”  
  
“Lilith?” Jace’s voice rose an octave. “Do you have any idea how insane you sound? I’m not unspeakably evil, I’m only a danger to demons and like, rogue vampires who want to suck New York dry—Valentine was confirmed dead long after my father died, I don’t know what you want with me but you’ve got the wrong guy!”  
  
He remembered when he was six, new to the Institute, and Alec had found a mouse caught in a trap in the training room. They’d fed and watered it, until it had bitten Alec rather savagely, and almost made him cry. Jace had broken the mouse’s neck in retaliation, which did actually make Alec cry. He remembered all the times Alec had held him back, told him he’d gone too far.  
  
“Valentine was a master of faking his own death,” Jocelyn said, and her voice sounded bitter. “He must have hated to give you up—his greatest achievement, he called you. I thought he was dead back when you were only a baby, but Luke told me he’d been pronounced dead again maybe twelve years ago, so obviously he wasn’t.”  
  
“You can’t prove it’s me,” said Jace, but his throat felt closed up, his chest tight, adrenaline surging through his blood.   
  
“Not conclusively,” Jocelyn said. “But I know truth. And so, I think, do you.”  
  
  
  
  
“So can we get to the Quiet Brothers or whatever?” Simon asked, while stuffing his face full with pasta. “Holy shit, this marinara is to die for.”  
  
“The Silent Brothers,” Alec corrected, looking annoyed. “And no, I asked. They’re busy guarding the Soul Sword while the Inquisitor uses it.”  
  
There was a sharp _CLANG_ as Izzy attacked her bowl with her fork with more force than necessary, but she said nothing.  
  
“Can we ask them directly?” Clary asked. Or at least, that’s what Simon was pretty sure she said. Her mouth was also very full of pasta, and she showed no signs of stopping or slowing.  
  
Alec made a face. “I suppose so. But they freak me out.”  
  
“Like, _The Mummy_ freak you out?” Simon asked.  
  
Alec looked annoyed, rolling his eyes. “How many times do I have to say I don’t understand a word you’re saying?”  
  
“We need to get back to the Institute,” Izzy said, pushing her bowl away and rubbing at her arm. “Hodge can get us an audience with them in the Silent City. If there’s a block in Clary’s memory and they can remove it, it may lead us to Jace and Jocelyn.”  
  
“Have there been any hits on his tracking rune?” Alec asked. “It only works if he’s conscious, but I’d know if he were...dead or something.”  
  
“Not that I know,” Izzy admitted. “But I think mom and dad want us to stay out of it, so I wouldn’t count on them telling us if there was.”  
  
Alec looked grim, but did not argue. “How do we get out of Idris? The Clave has only a few hours to confirm with Valentine that they’ll give him Jonathan, and after that another twenty-four hours to put together their strategy to track Valentine through the swap. They won’t be letting anyone in or out.”  
  
Izzy scowled. “We could always try to get Inquisitor Asshole to see reason and beg her to let us search for her long-lost grandson.”  
  
Alec snorted. “Realistic suggestions only, please.”  
  
  
  
  
“I understand your family is under immense strain right now,” Jia Penhallow said, and she did truly sound sympathetic. “But the Clave’s first priority right now is Valentine, not Jace. I’m sorry we can’t do more for him, but currently we’re overstretched to sure up the wards and search for the Mortal Cup. Not to mention calm the panic that Valentine’s return and Jonathan Morgenstern’s testimony has caused. If the downworld were to hear of this—well, you understand.”  
  
Maryse fought to keep her face neutral. “Jocelyn Fairchild was the last one known to have the Cup. She now has Jace. Perhaps her daughter—Clarissa—can lead us to her.”  
  
“We will pursue every avenue in due turn,” Jia said. “I know that’s not a satisfying answer, but it is the only one I can give. Inquisitor Herondale is racing the clock to get as much information from Valentine’s son as possible, she doesn’t have time to search for Jace now. You know if it were up to her she’d be out there right now. A grandson—it’s all she’s wanted, other than Valentine’s head on a pike.”  
  
“I understand,” Maryse said smoothly. “I didn’t mean to suggest the Inquisitor was doing anything but her utmost.”  
  
Jia gave her a firm, grateful smile. “I appreciate your family’s support. I know it’s not easy.” She put a hand on Maryse’s arm. “If there is anything I can do for you, please tell me.”  
  
Maryse was silent for a moment, internally torn. She thought of Isabelle, her pain when her _parabatai_ died. Why hadn’t she listened when they told her the Morgenstern boy was nothing but trouble? And now, it felt, they all bore the costs. “Actually,” she said. “Yes, there is.”  
  
  
  
The Guard was as cold and despicably miserable as Maryse remembered it. The Inquisitor met her and the Consul in the hall where Valentine’s son was being held, her mouth set into a thin line of disapproval.   
  
“Ten minutes,” she said, looking Maryse up and down with some distaste. “The Brothers are with him now, but I’ve instructed them to let you speak with the prisoner.”  
  
“Thank you, madam Inquisitor,” Maryse said formally. To Jia, she added, “And thank you too, Consul.”  
  
Jia nodded, though she looked wary. She’d been there when they found him, as had the Inquisitor—a half-feral child with his father’s mad eyes, the Morgenstern family dagger clenched in his little hands, and covered in multiple pints of his father’s blood. Disarming him had been a battle in itself, and even after that Artemis Harkhaven sustained a rather nasty bite wound.  
  
Maryse squared her shoulders and strode down the cell block, stopping by the cell with the Silent Brother standing watch. She thought she recognized him to be Brother Zachariah. “Brother,” she greeted, with a nod of respect.  
  
 _Well met, Maryse Lightwood._   
  
Brother Zachariah stepped aside, or rather glided, and Maryse stepped forwards toward the bars. Jonathan—certainly no longer a child—lay on the floor, curled with his back to the entrance of his cell.  
  
“Jonathan.” She was glad to hear her voice held authority, and did not so much as tremble.   
  
For a moment, he did not respond, and she wondered if he was ignoring her. Then, as if with painful effort, he rolled over on his shoulder to face her. His face was a picture of disbelief. “Maryse?” In an instant he half-crawled, half-dragged himself to the bars. “Maryse, is that you?”  
  
For a second, she almost pitied him. He seemed so miserable, so scared, a deep cut under one eye and blood running from his nose. But then, he’d also acted normal—kind, even—for over ten years, while not even being human. Valentine and Lilith’s blood combined made him a master manipulator.  
  
“Is Izzy all right?” He sounded desperate. Maryse could not help but notice the deep burns on his palms where the sword had rested, the cuts in his fingers where he’d gripped the blade.  
  
“Yes. She is.” Maryse cleared her throat, lest emotion crowd her way. “I need you to let us remove your _parabatai_ rune.”  
  
Jonathan’s lips parted soundlessly, and she was not sure if she imagined a sharp intake of breath. Then he bowed his head and said, “Yes. I suppose that would be for the best.”  
  
Maryse paused, a bit taken aback. She’d expected tears, anger, begging, anything but the quiet acceptance before her. No one had told Jonathan of Valentine’s demands, but somehow he seemed to know his demise was imminent.   
  
“Thank you.” She said shortly. She was not sure what else to say. “I will arrange to have it removed tomorrow morning.”  
  
Jonathan’s head lifted, just slightly. “Has...Isabelle said yes?”  
  
She steeled herself against his gaze, lest his eyes turn her way again. The task was not difficult. He looked so like his father, dark eyes and fair hair and skin, expressive mouth, with his mother’s high cheekbones. It was a face she hated very easily. “Yes. She has.”  
  
Jonathan’s shoulders sank, just perceptibly, and she felt nothing for him at all. “Tomorrow, then.”  
  
Then he turned his back to her and returned to the floor, and did not move. Maryse turned and strode back down the hall, the Inquisitor and the Consul’s gazes on her.  
  
“You did the right thing,” the Consul said, once Herondale had returned. Her gaze was fully sympathetic.  
  
“I know I did.” Maryse nodded to her. “Thank you again, Consul.”  
  
 _Maryse Lightwood. May I speak with you?_   
  
Maryse and the Consul both turned to Zachariah in surprise—neither had heard him approach. “Of course, Brother Zachariah.”   
  
Jia put a hand on her arm. “I’ll leave you to it. Please speak with me again should you have the need.”  
  
 _The parabatai bond is a sacred one,_ Zachariah said, his voice a resonant whisper in her head. _It must not be broken so lightly._   
  
“Not lightly at all.” Maryse’s voice shook for the first time; she clasped her hands behind her back to keep them from trembling. “I do nothing with a light heart these days, Brother. Please do not presume to know my family’s affairs.”   
  
_I do not know of your family’s sorrows,_ Zachariah said, and his whisper did sound sympathetic. _But I do know of the Nephilim. The pain you wish to spare your daughter will be borne either way. Do not add to it._  
  
Maryse bit back a sharp, waspish reply and gave the Silent Brother a frigid nod. Anger seared in her chest like acid burn or sharp whiskey. The Brothers were a solemn, secretive bunch, but never would she have imagined one would condescend to a mortal like this. “My thanks for your counsel. I will deliberate on your words.”  
  
She turned on her heel and strode from the Guard, and tried not to feel Zachariah’s gaze on her back as she went.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PS: In this totally made-up canon you can remove a parabatai rune which reduces the effect (they won't be able to 'feel' each other anymore) but it doesn't break the bond, the rune is just a channel for the parabatai...er, magic. 
> 
> PPS: I tried to keep the dates straight but I also changed it multiple times while writing so I probably fucked that up at least once lmao. Hope you enjoyed anyway!! <33


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey so there's a scene of like, show-typical violence in this chapter, just a heads up if mention of blood squicks you out! there's nothing graphic just like....Jace's never-ending turmoil, lol. Also, say hi to Aline!! She's here to stay, I'm so excited!!

“So how’s Carolyn?” Izzy asked, with a smile. “Still have the cutest smile in all of Alicante? Other than mine, of course.”  
  
“So humble, as always,” Aline said, but there was a light to her eyes that went with her crooked smile. “Carolyn’s doing well. We’re not...seeing each other right now, but it was an amicable thing. She’s set to be married, actually. To a Wrencove boy. He’s got half her wits and a quarter of her charm, but his parents are connected, so it goes.”  
  
Izzy pulled a face. “If my parents ever try to marry me off like that, I’m running away to Antartica. Boring boys are worse than no boys at all.” She let her smile soften. “Are you doing okay, though? Idris can get lonely.”  
  
“I’m fine,” Aline said, and it didn’t sound entirely untruthful. “Politics is my constant companion, as always, but my cousin is coming up from the London Institute for—well, now that all this is happening. He’s very pretty and entirely eligible—might be your type.”  
  
Izzy put on a lascivious grin. “I might just have to meet this mysterious cousin, then.”  
  
“Just go easy on him,” Aline said, with another crooked smile. “He’s fragile.”  
  
“Fragile is my favorite.” Izzy stirred at her homemade latte—Aline had an incredible gift for coffeemaking. It was heavenly, not too sugary with a hint of caramel and a strong bite of coffee. “Okay, not that I don’t love talking boys, but can I ask why you asked me here? I’m assuming it wasn’t to match-make me with your cute cousin.”  
  
Aline bit at her lip, and Izzy was instantly worried. Aline never hesitated—she was even more deliberate and confident than Izzy herself, cool and levelheaded in a way Izzy hoped she would be some day. “There’s no easy way to tell you this, Isabelle.” she said, and to Izzy’s relief her tone was not coddling, just matter-of-fact. “Maryse came to my mother’s office today. To talk about Jonathan Morgenstern. Orders have been given to have his _parabatai_ rune removed before he’s sent to the rendezvous with Valentine. I know how much he means to you, and I didn’t think you wouldn’t be one to agree to having the bond severed like that. You fought so hard to be bonded with him in the first place, I just wanted to make sure you knew it was happening.”  
  
Izzy stared at the mug in her hands, feeling as if the floor had suddenly shifted under her. “I...I didn’t,” she said, hearing her own voice tremble in her throat. With everything else happening, Max and Jace and Valentine, Maryse had gone behind her back on something that should be _her_ decision, and Jonathan’s, and no one else’s.  
  
“Izzy, I’m sorry.” Aline’s voice sounded far away, as if she were speaking from another room. “I’m guessing she wanted to spare you the pain of his death.”  
  
Izzy was on her feet, latte forgotten on the table. “I have to go,” she said. “Thank you for telling me, Aline. I owe you a huge debt.”  
  
Aline’s hand was on her arm. “Izzy, I don’t think you can stop it,” she said. “I’m sorry, but it may already be too late.”  
  
“I have to try.” Izzy drew Aline into a fierce hug, and was profoundly grateful to feel it returned. “Thank you again, I know telling me was a risk on your part. Please say hi to Carolyn for me.”  
  
“I will.” Aline let her go, a grave smile on her face. “All my best wishes to your family.”  
  
  
  
  
  
The door to Maryse’s study burst open with a _BANG_ and Isabelle strode in, stomping in her heeled boots as if trying to stab into the floor itself. In a second she was at Maryse’s desk, slamming her hands down on the records book she’d been pretending to attend to keep her mind occupied.  
  
“Jonathan’s rune isn’t being removed.” Isabelle snapped, her voice so full of hatred and command and for a moment she reminded Maryse of Imogen.  
  
Maryse’s heart sank. With an effort, she met her daughter’s eyes. They seemed almost to glow with fury, like twin brands. “Who told you?”  
  
“Aline Penhallow. Because she actually gives a damn about my feelings, unlike you.” Isabelle’s chin jutted forward, glaring down at Maryse as if she were the recalcitrant daughter, not the other way around. “I have no interest in knowing why you did it, I just want you to put a stop to it. But if it was for the family honor, I hope I’m not the one to break it to you that this family has no honor.”  
  
“Isabelle.” Maryse’s voice came out sharp, jagged, like a broken blade. “I did this for you. Nothing else.”  
  
“For me?!” Isabelle’s voice scaled an octave. “Are you insane? Not only are you letting my brother die, you’re taking away our bond before he’s even dead—”  
  
“Jonathan Morgenstern is not your brother,” Maryse snapped. “He is the sick, twisted creation of an evil, twisted man. One that I should never, _never_ have let come anywhere near this family, a mistake for which I and all of us are paying more dearly than any family should bear. He and every living Morgenstern is a _curse_ , Isabelle, and I won’t stand by while that curse your father and I brought upon us destroys your life!”  
  
“Jonathan isn’t Valentine,” Isabelle hissed. “I grew up with him, I trained with him—he was the one who took care of me when I was sick or injured, who was always there for me. You and Robert weren’t there, you were in Idris. It was my decision to take Jonathan as my _parabatai_ when I turned eighteen, not yours, and it’s our decision whether to break it now. _Not yours_.”  
  
Maryse shook her head. “You were too young to understand then, and you’re too young to understand now. Having one’s _parabatai_ die is the worst thing a shadowhunter experience. Men and women older and dare I say more experienced than you have gone mad with grief. I can’t take that pain from you, Isabelle, but I’ll be damned if I sit by and do nothing like I did when you befriended that monster in the first place.”  
  
“Will you abandon Jace for the sins of his father, too?” Isabelle demanded. “Are you so afraid of Valentine you’ll burn everything he touches, even if it means burning your own family?”  
  
Maryse swallowed, or tried to swallow, but she could not get past the horrible, aching lump in her throat, the tight, constricting feeling around her neck. “Yes,” she said, and her voice was hardly past a whisper. “Yes, I am. And you should be, too.”  
  
Something in her face must have been truly terrible because Isabelle faltered, her anger dimming into something much, much worse. “Max isn’t coming back, is he?”  
  
“I’m afraid,” said Maryse, and the words stuck in her throat like lead, “that I really don’t think so.”  
  
Isabelle choked out a sob, as if it had been physically pulled from her. Tears spilled down her cheeks, harsh, wracking sobs turning to little whimpers. Maryse’s chest ached with such a terrible ferocity that did not dissipate when Isabelle rounded the desk to bury her face in Maryse’s shoulder, clinging to her with fury, desperation, and so much pain.  
  
“I’m so sorry,” Maryse said, and said it over and over until it sounded like a prayer or a mantra. “I’m so sorry, baby, you don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve any of this.”  
  
Isabelle said nothing, just rubbed her makeup off into her sleeve. When her silent, jerking sobs had subsided, she said, “I need to see him, mom. Please.”  
  
Maryse’s heart felt like lead. She had brought this upon their family. She could bear it. She had to. “I’ll speak with the Consul.”  
  
  
  
  
Alec shut the door to Izzy’s room gently, tired all the way down to his bones, as if he’d just come off ten consecutive sparring sessions with Jace. Izzy was asleep, for now, and looked almost peaceful with her eyes shut and her hair tied back for sleep. Maryse had spoken with the Consul, again, and Izzy would see Jonathan again to say goodbye in a few hours before he was portaled back to New York. Such an exception would never have been made if it weren’t for the Lightwood’s situation, Alec knew, and for some reason the thought filled him with tired, aching bitterness.  
  
“Hey.” It was the mundane boy, Simon. He was sitting with Clary on the upstairs couch, looking very pale against the dark leather. Clary was fast asleep, the Grey Book upside down on her lap. He was awkward, tentative. “You doing okay?”  
  
“Not really,” said Alec. He looked to the grandfather clock at the doorway; it was nearly midnight. “What’s that smell?”  
  
Simon brightened. “Peanut butter cookies,” he said proudly. “They’re a bit vegan because you guys didn’t have eggs, or really anything, but Clary and I ate like, thirty of them, so I can confirm they’re pretty good. Want some?”  
  
He gestured to a huge plate towered high with cookies, each one with a clumsy hatch pattern pressed into the top with a fork. The thought of eating was entirely unappealing, but the smell was compelling and Alec couldn’t remember the last thing he ate.  
  
He sat down on the armchair beside the couch and grabbed two, biting into both at once. They did taste slightly unusual, probably because there was almost no food in the manor other than the odds and ends Isabelle brought with her nearly a year ago. But they were warm and gooey and sweet and salty and now that Alec was eating he realized he _was_ hungry, and frankly did not give a fuck that eating this many cookies made from ancient ingredients by two mundanes was likely to kill him.  
  
“Good?” Simon asked, with an awkward smile.  
  
Alec made what he imagined was an appreciative noise through a mouthful, and grabbed another handful. Once he’d finished off nearly the entire platter, his emotions were somewhat stabilized by the inevitable crash of a food coma, and his brain seemed cleared of fog, as if he could suddenly conquer the world.  
  
“We should go to the Silent Brothers,” Alec said, watching Simon play some stupid game on his phone. “Ask them to examine Clary for a memory block. The Inquisitor has to have taken a break with the Sword, she’s in charge of transporting Jonathan and tracking Valentine tomorrow. They’ll probably be at the Guard—that’s not far from here.”  
  
“Wait, now?” Simon sounded incredulous. “It’s like, the middle of the night, dude.”  
  
“The Silent Brothers don’t sleep,” Alec said. “You snore too much to possibly be asleep. And I, personally, would rather make out with a Shax demon than try, so what are we waiting for?”  
  
As if to answer his question, Clary groaned in her sleep and slumped sideways on the couch.  
  
“She has to get eight plus hours or she’s cranky,” Simon explained. When Alec fixed him with a look, he held up his hands as if in surrender. “Okay, okay, I’ll wake her up, but you get to deal with her if there’s no coffee.”  
  
  
  
  
“I’m cold,” mumbled Clary, drawing Simon’s coat closer around her shoulders. “Are we almost there?”  
  
“Almost,” said Alec, with the look of someone very annoyed and trying to hide it. “Can’t you go any faster? I don’t think anyone would be thrilled to find two mundanes wandering around the streets at night.”  
  
Simon grumbled but sped up his pace; Clary tripped into a jog behind him. The lamplight above them threw yellow puddles on the cobblestone streets, dyed indigo by the night sky. Alec’s superior stride was getting to him—would it kill him to slow down, just for a moment?  
  
“It’s beautiful out here,” Clary said, her scowl relaxing into a look of wonder. “You can see all the stars, the light pollution is next to nothing.”  
  
Simon looked up, and indeed, there were a lot of stars. When he was a kid—and, to be honest, now that he was an adult—he liked to pretend there were Star Destroyers up there.  
  
“Can you two stop staring at the sky? We’re almost at the Guard.”  
  
“Sorry, sorry.” Simon hurried to catch up with Alec, who was outright scowling now. “How are we going to get in? This is like, you guys’ prison, right?”  
  
Alec’s scowl turned to a frown. “Leave that to me.” He took the stone steps up to a massive stone tower three at a time. Show-off.  
  
“The two mundanes with information about Jace Wayland,” Alec said to the guard at the door, a short, curly-haired woman with dark brown skin and a fantastic undercut. “Inquisitor’s orders.”  
  
“I didn’t get any orders about any mundanes,” the guard replied, with a frown.  
  
Alec shrugged. “If you want to bother her at this time of night to confirm, be my guest. My father asked me to deliver them, so here I am.”  
  
“What cell block?”  
  
“The Silent Brothers,” Alec said. “No one told me where.” To her frown, he added, “If you think I have the clearance to know why, you’ve got the wrong guy.”  
  
A pause, then the guard shrugged. “The Brothers’ envoy is three levels down. You’ll find them, they aren’t exactly hard to spot.”  
  
“Thanks.” Alec turned to Simon and Clary, who did their best to look prisoner-like. “You two. This way.”  
  
They followed him up the stone steps and through the heavy wooden doors. Simon swallowed hard, his sense of foreboding so thick it might as well be Bubbie Helen’s pea soup. Clary squeezed his hand tight, at no more ease than he was.  
  
“This place sucks,” Simon whispered. Indeed, the chill from outside seemed multiplied tenfold, and the air seemed damp and stale with rot and despair. The stone was hard and unforgiving, the corridors so dark he had to squint just to see.  
  
“If it were a five-star hotel, it would hardly be much of a prison, would it?” Alec whispered back. “Now hurry up and stay quiet, before someone realizes we shouldn’t be here.”  
  
“That was like, 100 sneak, 100 persuasion,” Simon told him in an undertone. “Like, holy shit man. I didn’t know you had it in you.”  
  
“I didn’t either,” Alec admitted, looking uncharacteristically green even in the sickly light. Simon offered him an encouraging thumbs-up, and Clary made a soft noise of distress as she brushed against something distinctly slimy.

They followed Alec down a set of broken, winding stairs, and Simon noted to himself that he was either getting dumber in his tender adult years or he really trusted this Alec guy to follow him into a pitch-dark hell pit. That, or he and Clary were that desperate. Though, getting out of Angel Probably-Fake Neverland (Midrift? or whatever it was called) and calling up Luke to help them find Jocelyn was probably a wiser move if they were in such dire straits. Since when did Simon say ‘dire straits,’ even in his own head? Neither he nor Clary were straits. Or straights, for that matter. He was babbling. It was also freezing down here.  
  
Clary’s hand found his and Simon squeezed it. He hoped she wasn’t as scared as he was, but considering she was the one who was gonna have to talk to the Silent Brothers (however that was going to work. It sounded like a bit of an oxymoron to Simon), not him, she probably was. Considering Alec had lied his ass off to get them in here, Simon was probably the least freaked-out of all of them, which was not saying good things for their average or median freaked-outed-ness.  
  
“This is the third level,” Alec whispered, and Simon startled at his voice. His silhouette was barely visible in the darkness—how the fuck did these shadowhunter people see? By being badass, apparently.  
  
_Greetings, Alexander Lightwood, Clarissa Fairchild, Simon Lewis._  
  
Simon was definitely not the only one who screamed, though he definitely screamed the loudest. Even Alec made a sort of strangled taken-aback noise that was much more manly and dignified than anything Simon felt like doing right now.  
  
_Pardon me, Simon, Clarissa. I forget you are not yet familiar with our kind. I am Brother Mischel. For what reason do you seek our counsel?_  
  
“Brother Mischel, we think—“  
  
“I need to remember where my mother is,” Clary interrupted, and Alec looked at her in vague surprise. Her voice was a bit wary, but strong and clear. “Alec and Izzy think there’s a block on my memory that won’t let me remember anything she’s told me about the shadow world. They said you could help.”  
  
_Magic of the memory is old, and volitaile. We can help with what you seek, but not without danger. To seek out a block requires the use of the Soul Sword. On a mundane, this is to ask for certain death._  
  
“She’s not a mundane,” Alec said, and Simon remarked internally that this may have been the nicest thing he’d said about her. “Her mother was a shadowhunter.”  
  
_If her mind cannot bear the Sword, she will be lost irretrievably to utter madness._  
  
“Uh,” Simon said. “Is this like when they hide the ‘may cause sudden death’ side effects in the middle of those TV ads that go really fast and you can’t understand them?”  
  
“I think he’s being pretty clear,” Alec said, in a tone that suggested he didn’t understand much of what Simon said but was too unnerved to be rude about it.  
  
Clary squared her shoulders, jutting her chin out like the possibility of sudden death were just another trial to face with aplomb. “I’ll do it. I just want to find my mom.”  
  
_Very well. This way._  
  
“Clary,” Simon whispered. “Clary, I don’t mean to second-guess you here, but death is uh, usually kind of permanent. Like, very permanent.”  
  
“I’ll be okay, Simon,” Clary said, though she didn’t sound particularly confident. “If something I remember helps us find my mom, it’ll be worth it. For everyone.”  
  
“Okay,” Simon said. Clary’s decision was Clary’s decision, and he’d said already said his piece. “But I don’t like it.”  
  
  
  
Clary followed Brother Mischel in silence, afraid Alec and Simon could hear her heart hammering against her ribcage. She felt like she was going to the principal’s office—if going to the principal’s office had a high risk of sudden death. But the thought that she knew something that could help them find her mother and Izzy and Alec’s friend was like a weight at the back of her mind, drawing her in.  
  
_She’s not a mundane. Her mother was a shadowhunter._ Clary took a deep breath; let it out. If Alec, who seemed to hate her, was confident she could do this, she could.  
  
Actually, fuck that. She could do this. She _would_ do this.  
  
She was so caught up in her pep-talk she failed to notice the two other partchment-robed figures enter into the room. One of them looked slightly different than the other two—more human, somehow. The tallest stepped—or rather, glided—towards her, an enormous sword wrought with all kinds of symbols on the blade, the crossguard gilt like angel’s wings.  
  
_Clarissa Fairchild. Take the Mortal Sword._  
  
Clary eyed the very large sword and took an involuntary step back, all courage suddenly evaporated. “Uh, I’m pretty sure I skipped to many gym days to possibly hold that thing.”  
  
A strange, electric amusement suffused the air; Clary was a little bit taken aback they seemed to find this funny.  
  
_The sword will appear nearly weightless, unless you attempt to utter a falsehood._  
  
Clary thought of Izzy’s parabatai Jonathan and how he’d seemed to be in such deep torment, then hastily thought of something else. Squaring her shoulders and trying to ignore Simon’s deeply terrified thumbs-up, she held out her hands and, summoning all her willpower, wrapped her fingers around the hilt.  
  
For a moment, nothing happened. The sword was, as promised, about as heavy as a textbook, not three feet of steel. Then, just as she was trying to find a suitably dignified way of asking if she needed to turn it off and then on again, a blast of pain tore through her skull, as if she’d been hit with a concrete bat. White curtained over her vision and for a second she thought she could hear Simon screaming her name, see her mother disappearing in a vortex of magic—  
  
_MAGNUS BANE._

Clary screamed but no sound came from her mouth. The sensation of sinking, falling into some soft, syrupy vortex enveloped her, choking off her breath. She tried to raise her arms to fight it off but her body did not move and the vortex was impermeable. She gave another wordless scream, trapped in her own body, clawing up and out of nothingness with nothing but the weakening tendrils of her mind and then—  
  
_freedom._  
  
Reality filtered back to her senses slowly. The sensation of damp, pain in her hip and wrist, something very cold—the floor. With effort and trepidation, she opened her eyes, and her skull gave a tremendous throb. Simon and, to her surprise, even Alec were huddled over her, Simon looking distraught and Alec mildly inconvenienced. She was definitely on the floor, and wasn't sure how she got there.  
  
“Did I...fall over?” she mumbled. Her words sounded slurred, even to her own ears.  
  
“You nearly died,” Alec told her, rather abruptly. He took her arm, none too gently. “Can you stand?”  
  
“Not yet,” Clary admitted. It was dark, but she recognized and recalled the shadowhunter prison, grim and cold. A sword—the block on her memory.  
  
“Did you see anything? Hear anything?”  
  
_The block is too powerful_ , one of the Brothers said. _But the incantation has been signed, if you will, by the agent  responsible._  
  
“Who?” Alec was on his feet in an instant. “It’s a matter of life and death, we must know—“  
  
“Magnus Bane,” said Clary, surprising everyone. Even one of the Brothers looked a little bit surprised, even if she couldn’t see their face; it was more of a general impression. Her head still ached and she felt clammy and a bit sick, but she managed to sit up with Simon’s help. “That’s the name I heard before I passed out. He’s the one we have to find.”  
  
  
  
  
“Izzy,” Alec said, breathlessly, shutting her bedroom door behind him. “Izzy, I need to talk to you.”  
  
Isabelle turned around, and Alec’s breath caught in his chest to see her in mourning white. Her skin was wan, her face as bare of makeup as he had ever seen it. She looked older, somehow, and the sight made his heart ache. “Not now, Alec,” she said, and it was neither angry nor dismissive, just flat.  
  
“It’s about Clary. We went to see the Silent Brothers.” Alec said. “She does have a block in her memory.”  
  
“Is she okay?” Izzy’s expression turned to concern. “Alec, I should have been there—being questioned by the brothers isn’t something to take lightly—“  
  
“She’s fine,” Alec assured her. “I promise. But there’s more. The Brothers couldn’t remove the block without risking damage to Clary’s mind, but they could tell us who put the block there. Magnus Bane.”  
  
Izzy frowned. “The High Warlock of Brooklyn?” To Alec’s confused face, she said, “I’ve been to a few of his parties with Meliorn.”  
  
“We have to get back to New York,” Alec said. “If Clary remembers something that will lead us to Jace—or even the Mortal Cup—“  
  
Izzy’s face fell and Alec instantly felt a shock of guilt. “We’ll talk about this when I get back,” she said, and Alec had to admire that her voice did not so much as tremble.  
  
“Would you like me to be there?” he asked, and no matter which way he thought to say it the words sounded wrong.  
  
“Stay here with Clary and Simon,” Izzy said. “And don’t let anyone know about the block, not even Mom and Dad. The search for Jace has been reclassified to a capture-or-kill mission—we don’t want them finding him before we do.”  
  
Alec gave her a quick hug. “I love you, Iz.”  
  
“I love you too.” She gave him a solemn smile. “Stop worrying, Alec. I can hear you from outside your skull.”  
  
“I’m always worrying about you,” Alec protested.  
  
“Then stop.” Izzy stood on her toes and pulled down on his shoulders to press a kiss to his cheek. “I’ll be fine, Alec. I promise.”  
  
  
  
  
The truth of it was, Izzy was nowhere near fine, and was not going to be that way anytime soon. She and Maryse had been standing outside the Guard for fifteen minutes, and during that time Izzy had felt her legs shaking, her breath shortening, tears pricking at her eyes. She tried to tell herself that using Jonathan as bait to trap Valentine stayed his execution, that if the plan succeeded the Clave might see reason and give him respite.  
  
The Inquisitor emerged from the Guard first, hard and cruel. Behind her paraded four shadowhunters, then—Izzy’s heart seized—Jonathan himself.  
  
Before Maryse could stop her she started toward him. Only her shadowhunter discipline stopped her from breaking into a run and throwing her arms around him.  
  
“Miss Lightwood,” the Inquisitor greeted, her tone cold, and Izzy offered an equally frigid nod in return. Jonathan’s guard parted for her slowly, and her gut clenched at the thick shackles of _adamas_ around his wrists and neck, as if he were an animal not a human being. There was a dark cut on his cheek and he looked sickly; a bruise shadowed one eye. He squinted at the harsh early morning sunlight as if in pain, but a smile almost like his old one was on his face, and for a split second she could convince herself everything was all right.  
  
“Isabelle,” he said, and even though his voice was quiet and strained, he sounded surprised.  
  
She threw her arms around his shoulders, burying her face in his chest. He could not return her embrace, but she could feel his body curl towards hers. He was trembling.  
  
“Are they...” he paused. She could not see his face, but she could feel his pain, even without being close. “Are they here to remove our rune?”  
  
Izzy pulled away momentarily to look him in the eyes. “No. No one’s removing either of our runes, ever.”  
  
Some of the tension in his shoulders bled away, and Izzy could feel how weak he was. Protective anger and rage tightened in her chest and she squeezed him more tightly, the urge to lash out at the Inquisitor, the Clave, the whole world almost overwhelmingly powerful.  
  
“Your mother—“  
  
“She did it without telling me.” Izzy’s voice was muffled against his chest. “I won’t let her, or anyone else. You’re my brother, Jonathan. I—I can’t stop them from taking you away, but I’ll never give up on you. Ever.”  
  
“Isabelle,” Jonathan said, and he sounded tired, exhausted even, and choked up. “I don’t want you to suffer.”  
  
“I don’t want you to suffer either!” Izzy snapped, pulling away to glare up at him. There were tears in her eyes now; she blinked them away, angrily. “I don’t—I want to know you’re alive. And I want to know—I want to know if you’re not. And I don’t want you to be alone.”  
  
“I don’t deserve you,” Jonathan whispered, and he looked frightened, actually frightened, and she’d never seen him scared before. It chilled her to the bone.  
  
“Yes you do,” she replied fiercely. “I love you, Jonathan, and I will always believe in you, and you will always be my _parabatai_. I don’t give a damn about your blood, I know you and you’re not like Valentine, and there’s nothing evil about you. Don’t believe you are.”  
  
Maryse’s hand was on her shoulder, gentle and hesitant. “Isabelle,” she said.  
  
Izzy clung to him again, not caring that the tears were spilling freely down her cheeks. Jonathan’s chest shook as if he were crying too; when hands grabbed at her arms and pulled her away, she could see that he was.  
  
“Isabelle, it’s time.” Maryse’s voice, again. “I’m so sorry baby, but it’s time.”  
  
Izzy pushed away everyone but her mother, jabbing with her elbows and knees where she had to, and did not hide her angry tears as the Inquisitor and Jonathan’s guard led him to the Portal that would take him to New York, where Valentine waited. Did Jonathan know he was being led into a trap, not his execution?  
  
She shouted his name one last time, and he turned to the sound of her voice just before the Portal swallowed him whole and he was gone.  
  
For what could have been just a minute or a few hours, Isabelle stood there, alone except for her mother in the empty square. It was maybe only four or five AM, and there was no sign of activity in Alicante’s streets. It was silent, save for the rush of wind and the sounds of birds, and peaceful.  
  
Inside, Izzy knew no peace, only dark, roiling hatred and anger. Hatred for Valentine, for the Clave, for herself to be so helpless in the face of it all. If Valentine had been there in person, she would have tore at him with her bare hands. As it was, the instinct to hunt, to kill, to avenge burned so strongly she felt she could hardly contain it. She did not want to contain it.  
  
“I’m fine, mom.” Izzy said, and indeed her cheeks were dry—she’d stopped crying long ago. “You can let go of me. I need to find Alec.”  
  
Find Alec. Get Clary and Simon to New York. Find Magnus Bane. Make him unlock something in Clary’s memories that would lead them to Jace and Clary’s mother. Save Jace, get the Cup, lure Valentine in, and crush him.  
  
“Isabelle—“  
  
“I mean it, mom.” Izzy disentangled herself firmly from her mother’s arms. “I know you’re needed in the search for Max and Jace. Don’t worry about me, I can take care of myself.”  
  
  
  
  
“Get up. We’re moving.”  
  
Jace turned over on his shoulder. Jocelyn stood over him, her hand on the hilt of the seraph blade, but she had not drawn it. “We better be going to get pizza, or something. I’m hungry.”  
  
Neither of them had eaten much in the past few days. Jocelyn went out to get a few items once, and Jace had tried all the locks on all the doors the entire time she had been gone, but they had been too strong and she returned with less than enough to feed both of them.  
  
“The city is dangerous. The Circle is looking for us.”  
  
“The Circle? You mean those assholes who were at your apartment?” Jace scoffed. “I can wipe the floor with them.”  
  
Jocelyn did not look amused. “I see your father’s arrogance didn’t skip a generation.”  
  
“My father was not arrogant!” Seeing Jocelyn’s dark expression, he added, “My father, who was _not_ Valentine, was not arrogant.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Back to food. I don’t think they’ll come looking for us in a Pizza Hut, and I’m pretty sure I’m more likely to die of starvation than being killed by some clown with a circle tattooed on their neck.” He changed his expression to wheedling. “They’re running a special, two larges for twenty bucks—I’ve got enough cash for both of them.”  
  
Thirty minutes later, Jocelyn pushed him into the Pizza Hut, the harsh, fluorescent light buzzing and throwing greenish, sallow light onto the single employee, a tired-looking guy with flyaway eyebrows and a semi-permanent scowl.  
  
“You order. I don’t know what you like.” Jace gestured to the backlit menu on the wall. “I’ll watch the windows for any of Valentine’s people.”  
  
Jocelyn didn’t argue, squinting up at the tiny, unreadable print. Jace sidled carefully behind her, optimizing his angle to the door, then after she glanced back at him before stepping forward to order he dove for the door, throwing it open and breaking into a sprint into the pitch-black parking lot.  
  
Jocelyn’s reaction was instantaneous but Jace was faster, and had carefully chosen the location for its difficult, familiar terrain. He darted down alleys, hurdled over garbage bins, scaled chain-link fences in two bounds, Jocelyn staying on his tail but losing ground. Eventually he ducked into a Thai takeout place and locked himself into the surprisingly clean bathroom until his heart stopped hammering. He was splashing his face with water and staring at his own reflection staring back at him when a heavy knock sounded on the door.  
  
Jace’s heart seized, but he calmed himself with effort. It was a public bathroom, after all, and he’d been in there for a while. “One sec!” he shouted, then cast about for anything, anything to use as a weapon. He grabbed a can of Febreeze off the sink and went to the door.  
  
Two guys stood in the doorway, which was Jace’s first indicator that all was not well. His second was that they both looked angry, and his third was the burned Circle rune on the leftmost man’s neck.  
  
Jace lunged for the door at the same time the man on the right—he had a sleek black topknot and a fierce snarl on his face—lunged for him. With their combined weight he didn’t stand a chance of keeping it shut, so he gave one last push and jabbed the Febreeze can into Topknot’s eyes.  
  
He cried out and the second man rammed the door open, and Jace skittered back in time to avoid getting knocked over as it swung open. The one not bleeding pulled a knife out of his jacket—it was truly too small a space to use swords, for which Jace was profoundly grateful.  
  
Fuck. Jace did not like the odds of bringing a Febreeze can to a knife fight.  
  
Knife Man swung at him and Jace leapt back, nearly slamming into the wall. He dove in the split second of his overswing and swung the Febreeze can into his face once, twice, then grabbed his jacket—pinning his knife arm to his chest—and swung him with all his might into Topknot, who had been trying to get on Jace’s flank. Jace grabbed at the knife, Knife Man grabbed at him, and Topknot missed a blow to Jace’s kidneys. Still, it hurt, and Jace yelled out in pain, then jerked the top of his skull up into Knife Man’s chin.  
  
 Blood splattered in his hair and Jace grinned, spinning Knife Man around and slamming his carrying wrist against the edge of the sink. He yelled out but did not drop it, so Jace did it again, then grabbed at Topknot’s arms as he grabbed Jace from behind and looped one thick forearm around his neck.  
  
Jace pulled fruitlessly at the man’s arm, the bloodied, slippery Febreeze can nearly falling out of his hand. Knife Man twisted his way but Jace threw his weight back and brought his knees up to his chest, slamming both his boots into the man’s chest, sending him stumbling. Then, as the oxygen burn started to set in, he fumbled with the Febreeze and, praying it was faced the right way, tilted it up towards Topknot’s face and squeezed the plastic lever.  
  
Whatever the man was expecting, a huge blast of Peony Paradise directly to the eyes, nose, and mouth was not it. His grip loosened and Jace ripped free, just in time to wrap his hand around the barrel of the can and slam his fist into Knife Man’s face, each impact jarring his arm to the shoulder. He slumped against the paper towel dispenser, momentarily stunned, and Jace kicked the knife out of his hand and grabbed it mid-air—a statistically unlikely but crucially-timed catch that allowed him to spin on his heel and drive the knife towards Knife Man’s chest. He deflected with his wrist but Jace drew blood, and the knife in his hand made him positively murderous.  
  
He slashed with all his speed, driving Knife Man back against the wall, then, seeing a split-second opening, drove the knife into his chest. He missed the heart but the man dropped with a gurgle.  
  
Jace registered a hand on his jacket a second before he was spun bodily around and thrown headlong into the sink. Pain erupted in his skull, a minor spiral galaxy birthing itself in the darkness that flashed before his eyes. His face connected with the porcelain again and Jace could feel his mouth and nose filling with blood, thick and salty. Topknot hauled him up to slam him into the sink again—  
  
“ _Dumah_!”  
  
Topknot hardly had a moment to react before Jocelyn’s seraph blade ignited and drove itself into his ribs. He gave a last, horrid gurgle and slumped to the floor, Jace not that far behind. The tile jarred his shoulder as he hit the ground; the pearly tile was dyed a light pink by the smeared blood. The light was unbearably harsh, the pain in his head blinding—  
  
Jocelyn dropped to one knee, her expression tense. Her stele flashed in her hand, and then Jace felt the cool sting of an iratze spread over his skin, uprooting the deepseated ache from his skull and knitting together his split skin.  
  
A wheezing gasp caught his attention and Jace reacted instantly, adrenaline surging through him and driving him to grab the still-living Circle shadowhunter and slam his skull into the tiled wall. "What are you after?" Jace demanded. This was a crucial opportunity: he had to get the survivor to tell him all he knew. "Tell me, or I swear to the Angel I'll make your last few minutes an appetizer for the hell you're going to."

He barely had the energy and focus to keep from collapsing, but the Circle grunt didn't have to know that.  
  
The man gave another gurgle and Jace pressed a hand to his chest, over his wound. The man cried out and Jace barely stifled a wince of sympathy—but he'd tried to kill him, and wouldn't stop there. This was a man who wanted the entire downworld and half the Clave dead.  
  
"Sent...to find you," the man groaned. His voice was failing—he'd be dead any moment now. Jace felt a lump rise in his throat but pushed it down. "Valentine's son."  
  
Shock jolted through Jace like ice water to his veins. His fingers, numb, unclasped from the man's shirt, letting him slump down to the floor; he vaguely felt himself lean back, unstable. The room seemed to wobble and spin on its axis. His mind replayed the last two words, weighing them, tasting their impossibility. Valentine wasn't his father. He couldn't be. Jace would have known, he would _know._ He started forward to grab the man again, shake him, hit him, anything to get him to talk, to _explain—_  
  
A touch on his shoulder made him startle, and he found Jocelyn's hand on his arm. "That's enough, Jonathan," she said, and her voice sounded tired. "We have to move. More are coming."  
  
  
  
  
  
“What was that?” Clary asked, trying not to sound as startled as she felt. They’d just returned from sitting tensely outside the Council hall to the Lightwood Manor when the sky flashed with deep streaks of red, clamor and shouts rising from all directions. Black-clad shadowhunters poured into the cobblestone streets, shattering the idyllic calm.  
  
Alec leapt off the couch. “The general alarm,” he explained quickly, rushing down the stairs. Clary and Simon clambered after him, catching up to him only as he paused to grab his bow and quiver from the hall before throwing open the door and running out onto the street. He stopped, looking around quickly as if scanning the crowd—  
  
“Alec!” Izzy’s voice sounded frantic and elated all at once. “Alec, it’s—“  
  
“I know,” said Alec, and he grabbed Simon’s sleeve as Izzy grabbed Clary’s hand and pulled.  
  
“Where are we going?” Clary asked at the same time Simon babbled to the same effect, running at full tilt to keep up. People all around them were shouting and running, and the chaos was absolute. “What’s happening?”  
  
“There’s been an attack,” Izzy shouted back. “The general alarm is sounded and every available shadowhunter is called to respond. This is our ticket back to New York.”  
  
The strange, swirling vortex that had taken away her mom and brought them to Alicante loomed in the street before them. Before Clary could possibly resist, protest, or even prepare herself, Izzy charged through, pulling Clary along after her. The horrible sensation of drowning, choking, and being pulled in every direction all at once threatened to overwhelm her and then—  
  
Clary collapsed onto the pavement, gasping for breath. The harsh, familiar scent of New York air filled her lungs and she felt terrified and grateful all at once. Weakly, she struggled to her feet, then helped up Simon, who was laying flat on his back.  
  
“They’re keeping Jonathan at the Institute, Izzy,” Alec was saying, with a reassuring hand on his sister’s arm. “He’s safer there than we are, the attack was on Staten Island. Our priority now is to find Jace and Jocelyn, and for that we need to find—“  
  
“Magnus Bane.” Izzy finished. “You’re right. Whatever’s happening on the Island, the Clave will deal with it.”  
  
“That was awful,” Simon moaned. “Like, I never want to do that again, ever.”  
  
Izzy beamed down at him in amusement. “Mundanes are so cute, aren’t they?”  
  
“Yeah,” said Alec, who looked deeply unconvinced. “Adorable.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “So where do we find this Magnus Bane?”  
  
“His apartment, for starters,” said Izzy, in lofty tones. “I think I know the way, but it’s been a while. I’m not sure he’ll be happy to see us, so maybe tone down the ‘official Clave business’ thing.”  
  
Alec’s displeasure, if possible, deepened. “Lead on.”  
  
  
  
  
As soon as Jonathan recognized the New York Institute looming overhead, he knew something was wrong. He didn’t need to be in New York to be executed—that could have been done in Idris. The Clave had lied— _again,_ as they always did. Fear of the unknown coiled in his gut, sending faint pangs of adrenline thrilling through his aching, leaden limbs.  
  
“Where is Starkweather?” Herondale demanded, looking around the courtyard in ill-concealed fury. “He should have an envoy ready to meet us.”  
  
“Ma’am,” one of Jonathan’s guard said. “There’s been an attack in Staten Island. The Circle has been confirmed present. The Institute’s forces have been deployed to countermand the attack.”  
  
Jonathan’s heart sped and instantly he _knew_. The attack was a diversion—the Clave must have promised to trade himself for Max, but Valentine knew the Clave would lie, so he attacked Staten Island to draw out their forces so he could attack again where they were weak. That’s what he did, what he always did, hadn’t they learned in all the years they’d fought him?  
  
For all he hated her, he had to admit the Inquisitor was no fool. “Prepare for attack,” she barked, drawing her blade and igniting the runes along its length. “Do not allow yourselves to be captured—that goes double for Valentine’s son.”  
  
The nearest shadowhunter shoved Jonathan to the ground, pinning him there with a boot to his back and sending out a hasty call for reinforcement. Jonathan struggled furiously but was too weak to break free with his arms pinioned under him.  
  
“I can help you!” he growled. “Let me fight them, you need my help—“  
  
A Portal opened and black-clad shadowhunters poured through, arrows whizzing and dropping two of Herondale’s shadowhunters instantly. As the rest scattered for cover the archers drew their blades and charged. The Inquisitor dispatched of one, then two. Leather-clad bodies fell like flies as combat flashed by like lightning. The Inquisitor was fierce and more impressive than he’d expected in a fight, but she was outnumbered and gave ground, the shadowhunters before her falling to their attackers.  
  
Then a last, lone figure blinked into existence and all of Jonathan’s struggles ceased. It had been years—ten, to be exact—but Jonathan instantly knew him.  
  
Valentine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From one parental cliffhanger....to another? I swear I don't really hate you guys, even if it may look like it....
> 
> Thanks so much for all your lovely comments on the last chapter and feel free to let me know your thoughts on this one!! also you can find me on tumblr [here](http://seb-verlacs.tumblr.com). <33


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's just pretend this isn't super late and just focus on the fact it's a super long update. Also, thank you to dellesayah on tumblr for consistently a) listening to my garbage and b) kicking my ass to actually you know...update.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

The walk to the warlock’s apartment was a long, arduous one. Clary had no idea how Izzy bore it in high heels; she and Simon were thoroughly out of breath by the end.  
  
“Here we are,” Izzy said, sounding proud. “Apartment building of Magnus Bane, High Warlock of Brooklyn.”  
  
“It looks like a brick building,” Simon observed, not sounding very impressed. At Izzy’s glare, he quickly added, “which is impressive that you could uh, pick it out and stuff. Very impressive.”  
  
“C’mon, we don’t even know he’s in.” Alec sounded distinctly dour. “I’m not taking the stairs, that walk was enough.”  
  
“Thank god,” Clary grumbled, who had not had her morning coffee.   
  
They trooped into the building, Isabelle charming the front desk security guard with a smile that made her flush to the roots of her cute afro.   
  
“What floor?” Alec asked, once they’d all crammed themselves into the mirrored elevator. “I don’t suppose you remember that?”  
  
“Top floor,” Izzy said confidently, checking her reflection idly in the mirror. Clary noticed with mild distress that she was sweating, her hair greasy and a bit lank. Wearing Jonathan’s sweater that was nearly four sizes too big, she looked rather like a redheaded potato.   
  
Alec shrugged and pushed floor fourteen, then dropped back into his resting scowl. Simon was checking his phone, and Clary resisted the urge to do likewise.  
  
“Down the hall, on the left,” Izzy said, leading them in the same direction. “I think he owns the whole side of the floor and charmed the place to be even bigger, but this way’s the entrance.”  
  
Clary followed her at a jog, anxiety rising. Something about the narrow, yellow-lit halls and brown trim nagged at her, drawing her down into the strange pit of half-remembered fantasy. By the time they’d reached Magnus Bane’s door, she felt positively faint.  
  
Alec raised his eyebrows at the ornate doors, then squared his shoulders, rocked a bit on his feet, then knocked rather confidently in four short raps.  
  
A face appeared in the door and Simon yelled, jerking back and nearly falling into the wall. Even Alec and Izzy looked appropriately shocked; Clary hardly reacted.  
  
“Hello,” said the face. He wore more makeup than Isabelle, minus the red lipstick, maybe, and there were scarlet streaks in his jet black hair. His dark eyes glittered with amusement. “What can I do you for? Or however that goes.”  
  
“Are you Magnus Bane?” Isabelle asked.  
  
“Yes and no, depending on the day. Who’s asking?”  
  
“We’re here pursuing official Clave business,” Alec said, gathering his bearings the fastest.  
  
“Why, that’s quite a coincidence! My name is Official Clave Business. Does that mean you’re pursuing me?” The last turned rather sultry.  
  
“Uh...sure?” said Alec, thoroughly flustered.  
  
The face disappeared with a wink and the door opened, revealing the same face and, thankfully, the rest of him. “I do hope that little party trick didn’t startle you,” he said, sounding quite smug. “Please, do come in.”  
  
Alec, Izzy, Simon, and lastly Clary filed into Magnus Bane’s apartment. Simon gasped—indeed, the place was huge, lavishly decorated with all sorts of shiny or brightly colored objects. Clary’s headache was worsening and she had the impulse to sit down, on the bright orange couch or on the floor, as if the colors were too much for her.  
  
“Is that a Sorcerer’s Lair pinball table?!” Simon exclaimed, pointing at the derelict pinball machine in the corner.  
  
“Why yes, it is indeed,” said Magnus, rather proudly, Clary thought. “First edition.” Adopting a stern expression and miming turning the pages on a spellbook he said in a deep voice, “Welcome to the Sorcer’s Lair.”  
  
“Oh shit,” said Simon. “I get it. You’re like, a warlock, and this is your...wow. I love it.”  
  
Beside him, Alec rolled his eyes.  
  
“May I ask what brings you children of the Angel to my humbe abode? Not to seem ungrateful for the visit, but I have a soufflé in the oven that needs attending.”  
  
“You put a block on my memory,” Clary said, trying not to sound too accusatory, despite her the pain in her temples. “Can you remove it?”  
  
Magnus regarded her with a guarded expression, as if she were a particularly smelly dog that had dragged itself into his apartment. “I can’t say whether I did, or whether I can remove it.”  
  
“Let me guess,” Izzy said. “It’ll cost us.”  
  
Magnus smiled. “Your instincts are razor-sharp. However, I’m feeling generous, so I’ll ask a token, nothing more.”  
  
“Name your price,” Alec said. “We’ll pay it.”  
  
“Your number,” said Magnus with a mischievous smile that made his dark eyes sparkle. “And your name, of course. Or, if you’d rather, you could go fetch me a croissant from my favorite bakery, but I’ll warn you it’s all the way across the city.”  
  
“My what?” Alec spluttered.  
  
Now it was Simon’s turn to roll his eyes. “He thinks you’re cute, dude.”  
  
For a moment Alec looked just as worried and confused as Simon upon learning vampires were real. ( _Really, did you not realize? Izzy had said. Do you think glam rock would have ever happened without them?_ ) “Uh, okay,” he said, and the tips of his ears were flamingly pink. “I’ll uh—I’ll write it down. I’m uh, I’m Alec. Alec, uh, Lightwood.”  
  
Magnus smiled widely and drew out his phone, a slim thing adorned with rhinestones, and held it out. Alec accepted it, nearly dropping it, and hastily tapped in his number.  
  
“Short for Alexander?” Magnus asked. Alec nodded hastily. “That’s very nice.”  
  
Behind him, Izzy was grinning like a demon, as if she’d been waiting for this moment all her life. Simon gave Alec a thumbs-up, but he didn’t notice.  
  
“I did put a block on your memory,” Magnus said, to Clary, pocketing his phone with a satisfied smile. “At your mother’s behest, I must stress. The appointments were becoming much more regular now that you’re of age—I always told her it would be better to tell you about the shadow world rather than try to hide it away from you, but like the rest of your sort she never listened.”  
  
“You know my mother?” Somehow, the mention of Jocelyn overshadowed the rest. “Why did she have my memories blocked? What did she block?”  
  
“Any mention of the shadow world,” Magnus said. “Anything that would cause you to realize you were anything but a mundane living in the mundane world. She did it, I suspect, to protect you, though I must say I’m not sure she considered the danger leaving you ignorant incurred.”  
  
“Can you remove it?” Izzy asked. “It’s very important, her memories could help us defeat Valentine.”  
  
Magnus looked vaguely regretful. “The magic required to alter memories is very complex and intricate. I’m afraid if I tamper with it again it could cause catastrophic damage. Even if Clary were willing to take that chance, I could not carry out your wishes in good conscience.”  
  
“Will she ever remember the stuff that got blocked?” Simon asked, looking rather concerned. “I mean, who knows what she forgot. Unless she forgot the time I peed my pants in kindergarten, in which case yeah that’s great.”  
  
“Nope,” said Clary, not without sympathy. “Still remember that.”  
  
“The block will wear off eventually,” Magnus said. “Maybe a few months, maybe a few years. Some memories may even take a lifetime to return, or not at all. It’s not very scientific, I’m afraid.”  
  
Alec muttered something that sounded like _fantastic_. “And you don’t have any information about where Jocelyn Fairchild is?”  
  
“Jocelyn remains an enigma to me,” Magnus said, a bit coolly. “I would think your kind would have a better change at keeping tabs on your own than me.”  
  
Alec’s shoulders slumped, and Clary felt a similar feeling in her own chest. Magnus Bane had been her best hope of finding her mother as well as Jace Lightwood, and it had turned out to be a mostly dead end. Her mother had not only allowed her memories to be taken, but had sought out the warlock for that purpose. She felt a strange mixture of hurt and a powerful desire to embrace her mother again, bury her face in her mother’s shoulder and ask her why.   
  
Seeing Alec’s face, Magnus’ softened slightly. “I’m sorry I can’t be of more help,” he said, and his regret did sound genuine. “If you should think of anything else you want to ask me, you know where to call.”  
  
Alec offered him a somewhat hostile half-smile. “Thank you.”  
  
“Really cool pinball table,” Simon said, then looked extremely embarrassed as if he hadn’t meant to say that aloud.  
  
  
  
  
Valentine stood at the center of the courtyard, so calm and cool the very sight of him struck terror into Jonathan’s chest. Phaesphoros was in his hand, familiar grey and white adamas with slim, silver stars carved into the blade.  
  
Whatever chance Herondale and her shadowhunters previously stood, it had evaporated. The foot pinning him to the ground lifted and Jonathan scrambled to his hands and knees, crawling to the nearest body, a man with a Circle rune on his neck. Jonathan grabbed his seraph blade and struggled to stand—  
  
Something tore into his thigh and Jonathan screamed, pain and shock jolting through his body. Herondale stood over him, the blade through his leg sinking into the dirt.  
  
“Let me—let me help you,” Jonathan gasped. He’d grovel at her feet if he had to. “Let me—let me kill him—“  
  
She knocked the blade swiftly out of his hands, then spun and drove her own blade into the chest of an approaching Circle member. “As if you won’t turn on me the second I free you,” she said, and her voice was cold.  
  
Most of her soldiers were dead or too injured to fight, and Valentine’s were doing no better. Valentine himself dispatched a straggler struggling to rise with a dismissive flick of his blade; he was approaching them swiftly, with a singular purpose, and Jonathan knew his father had come for him.   
  
The thought filled him with black terror.  
  
“Imogen,” Jonathan’s father said, and there was not a trace of mocking in his voice. His voice sent uncontrollable shivers down Jonathan’s spine—he whimpered again, not just in pain. “Please, stand aside.”  
  
“As if.” Herondale’s eyes blazed. The two moved slowly, pacing, taking each others measure. Herondale showed no fear but Jonathan knew she stood no chance. “I know what you did to Stephen and Celine. What you did to my grandson.”  
  
“Ah, the truth at last.” Valentine had a way of making these words sound genteel, somehow. His eyes turned Jonathan’s way. “You do know you can’t go trusting demons’ tales, don’t you?”  
  
Jonathan twisted around with effort, whimpering as he fought to grip the blade pinning his leg to the earth. The pain threatened to engulf him and his whole body screamed against it, but Jonathan forced himself to pull it out, inch by tortuous inch, the blade sticky with his dark blood. When it last came free his vision went black for a second, then cleared in time to see Herondale’s blade cross with his father’s, quick. She was faster than Jonathan expected, but already he could see her tiring—in a few minutes, she would stumble, and die.  
  
“You tore apart my family.” Herondale was breathless, but Jonathan could hear the concentrated rage that drove her, that punched her words from her lungs.   
  
Jonathan wrenched himself to his feet, stumbling slightly as he forced his leg to take his weight. He’d learned to push his body past its human limits under his father, knowing his cursed blood made him more resilient than any nephilim. Still, the blade felt impossibly heavy in his hands, and he knew as if he might collapse any second.   
  
“Ah, Jonathan,” Valentine said, as he limped near, hate and terror pulsing through his veins. “Still with your fruitless efforts to kill me.”  
  
“You killed Celine, didn’t you?” Herondale demanded, stepping back at the last second as Valentine’s blade nicked at her ribs. “You killed her and stole her baby.”  
  
“Jonathan finally told you, I see.” His father did not look repentant. “A shame you’ll never get to know your grandson. He turned out so well.”  
  
Jonathan lurched forwards but his father was too fast. As Herondale lunged for him his blade slipped under her defenses and into her ribs. She crumpled silently before the blade could pierce her back. Jonathan swung at him but the blow went wild and Valentine caught it on his blade with ease.  
  
“You’ve been playing human too long,” Valentine observed. “Pretending to be something you’re not has dulled you. Did you enjoy fooling them into thinking you could love them? Or did you fool yourself, too?”  
  
Jonathan thought of Isabelle, felt strength surge through their bond. He feinted to one side, then swung at Valentine with all his speed and strength, crying out in pain and anger. Valentine pulled back but Jonathan pressed his advantage, raining down each blow as fast as he could and not caring what would happen when he eventually expired. He drew blood once and grinned a fierce grimace, something angry and feral in him thrilling at the sight.  
  
Then his injured leg buckled and he stumbled. A line of fire whipped over his chest and as he curled in on himself in pain, his arm jarring to the shoulder as the blade was knocked from his hand. The hilt of Valentine’s sword connected with his chin and Jonathan felt himself falling before a hollow ache sounded in his skull and a spiral galaxy birthed itself before his eyes. He’d failed. He tensed for the blow that would end his life—Valentine always went for the heart, if he could, and that’s what he’d taught Jonathan, too—  
  
Valentine knelt and seized the _adamas_ chain connecting Jonathan’s neck to his bound wrists and, with a twist of the ring on his finger, they were gone.  
  
  
  
  
“Now what?” Izzy demanded irritably. Her _parabatai_ rune had been burning and throbbing like a brand all morning, and it was feeding into the poisonous anxiety hovering at the edges of her thoughts. “Magnus Bane was our best lead, and that completely fell apart. We’re no closer to finding Jace and Jocelyn than we were before.”  
  
“Actually, we’re not,” Clary said. Now that they were out in the fresh air, her pinched expression was relaxing into a slightly less pained look of exhaustion. “I may not remember anything about my mother’s interactions with the shadow world, but Luke might. He knew my mother better than anyone—he might know where she would go to hide. She may have even contacted him.”  
  
“And he’s a detective,” Simon chimed in. “So like, double the tracking mojo.”  
  
Izzy resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “How can we find Luke?”  
  
“He’ll probably be at the Jade Wolf,” Clary said. “It’s the restaurant he owns.”  
  
“Heh,” said Simon. “Jade Wolf. Jade _Wolf_.”  
  
Whatever Clary said next was lost as the world spun on its axis. Izzy staggered, grabbing a nearby street sign to keep from falling over. Clary grabbed her arm, pulling her upright.  
  
“Izzy, are you okay?”  
  
“Jonathan,” Izzy gasped. This was wrong. It was too early. The trade was scheduled for hours later and—  
  
The attack on Staten Island.  
  
“We have to get back to the Institute,” Izzy said, though her legs were weak and her vision spun nightmarishly. “There’s something wrong. Call Hodge, warn him—“  
  
Alec grabbed her other arm and she steadied, the horrible disorientation fading away. If they hadn’t been glamored—other than Simon, who she supposed appeared to be speaking to thin air—she imagined they would have attracted a lot of attention.  
  
“Too late,” he said grimly. “The Institute issued a  mass return-to-base order. The Circle attacked.”  
  
 _Jonathan_. Izzy’s heart pounded in her chest—that couldn’t have been his death, she would know, she would _know_. “We have to get back, now,” she said. “We have no idea how bad the damage is.”  
  
“Agreed.” Alec’s hand was firm on her shoulder. “Are you okay?”  
  
“I’m fine.” Izzy shook him off, Clary too. “You call Hodge, I’ll try Raj. If they have reason to believe the Circle is still in the area, we could be ambushed.”  
  
Alec nodded, already dialing. Izzy selected Raj’s contact and was annoyed to find it went straight to voicemail. Clary and Simon both looked worried, and confused, and it only made the sick feeling in her stomach worse.  
  
“The Circle?” Clary said, a frown furrowing her brow. “Are those Valentine’s soldiers?”  
  
Izzy nodded. “Ex shadowhunters loyal to Valentine. We don’t know how many of them he has, so many of them disappeared and were never found.”  
  
“He says there’s no signs of them in the area,” Alec interjected. “The Silent Brothers are on their way—the Inquisitor is in critical condition.”  
  
“And Jonathan?” Izzy demanded. “What about him? If the Inquisitor is injured, that means—“  
  
“Valentine has him.” Alec’s face was pale and taut. “He portaled in himself with a few soldiers, nearly killed the Inquisitor, and took Jonathan. We don’t know if he’s alive or not.”  
  
“He’s alive.” Izzy’s chest felt as if it had opened up into a black hole. If Valentine was mistrustful enough to kidnap Jonathan, surely he would find a way to make sure he couldn’t be tracked, and then there would be no way to find either him or Max. Jonathan’s fate was both unknown and totally in vain. “We have to go, now.”  
  
“I called an Uber,” Simon piped up. “Should be here in like five minutes.”  
  
Izzy stared at him. He gave an awkward smile and a thumbs up. “Unless there’s like, super secret Shadowhunter car-sharing programs I should know about?”  
  
“No,” Izzy admitted. She wished she could open a portal herself, be there instantly. “Fine. We wait for the Uber.”  
  
“What’s an Uber?” Alec asked curiously.  
  
  
  
  
“So what’s it like?” Jace asked, over a box of takeout. Jocelyn had dragged him to another abandoned warehouse even dirtier and colder than the last, but on the bright side she’d let him get food. “Living as mundane?”  
  
“Peaceful.” Jocelyn had stopped threatening him with a knife whenever he came closer than five feet, but she still looked at him as if he were Lucifer himself. “Shadowhunter life is short, violent, and cruel.”  
  
“Short, violent, cruel, and _not boring_ ,” Jace corrected her, then realized he probably wasn’t doing much to convince her he wasn’t part demon. “You make it sound like we’re all brutes who do nothing but kill. I read. I play the piano. Just because shadowhunters don’t have the same freedom mundanes do, doesn’t mean we’re incapable.”  
  
Jocelyn looked away, her eyes shadowed. “I once said the same things to your father.” She speared a piece of chicken, then pushed the box away. “I taught him to love music and literature, and he taught you. Look where that got us all. Would you consider Valentine a cultured man?”  
  
Jace swallowed, the growing pit of doubt at the back of his mind pulling at his crumbling certainty. _We had orders to find  you. Valentine’s son._ Memories of sitting at the gleaming black piano, praying his fingers didn’t hit a wrong note. “I don’t know him, so I can’t say.”  
  
Jocelyn turned to him sharply, her mouth drawn into a sharp, angry line. “Stop denying the truth, Jonathan. I saw what you did to those men.”  
  
“They were trying to kill me!” Jace snapped, banishing the image of blood splattered over the walls and slicking the floor like a particularly gruesome episode of CSI. Washing himself of it in the sink, unable to get it off his clothes. “What did you want me to do, hold hands and sing Christmas carols?”  
  
“You enjoy killing. It’s what you’re best at.” Jocelyn’s gaze was unforgiving. “Your father forged you into a weapon, and a very good one. But you’re not human.”  
  
“Stop telling me what I am!” Jace shouted. “You don’t even know me! You don’t know the first thing about me, or what I’ve done—and you’re hardly one to talk. You were a member of the Circle. You believed in Valentine at one point, even if you don’t now. Even if I am what you say, I’m not Valentine and I don’t want anything he wants!”  
  
Jocelyn’s eyes were livid. “I watched you burn the wings off moths and cut open mice and squirrels while they were still alive. Even as a child you never understood why what you did was wrong. You never had compassion, pity, never loved as a child should love. Your blood—your father—took that away from you. A child like that could never grow into something good.”  
  
Jace felt something like a hand closing around his lungs, and anger, rage, almost, spilling out in an ugly torrent from the corner of his mind where he’d pushed it away. “I—I may not have understood those things as a kid, but I do now. Maryse and Robert Lightwood taught me everything, gave me everything. You may have given birth to me but Maryse is my mother and she taught me about good and evil, and I have chosen good.”  
  
“Everyone has chosen good in their own mind,” Jocelyn replied, and her anger had faded, replaced by a deep sense of tiredness. “When I helped Valentine kill innocent downworlders, I too thought I was doing good. I wasn’t.”  
  
Jace had no reply for that. He had never expected to have his life examined and judged in every detail, and found himself sorely lacking. His takeout was already cold, and he had no stomach for it. “So that’s why you left to become a mundane. You were ashamed of what you’d done.”  
  
Jocelyn shook her head. “I left for my daughter. Clary. As long as she could live a normal life, a happy life, I was fulfilled.”  
  
Jace made a face. “So she has no knowledge of the shadow world? What if a vampire smelled her blood and tried to take a drink?”  
  
“I assure you, I did everything to protect her.” Jocelyn’s expression was steely. “When the Circle came for me, I knew I had to leave her, for her safety and the safety of the downworld.”  
  
“The Mortal Cup,” Jace said. “Do you have it? Where is it? The Institute—you have to get it to Idris immediately—“  
  
“I don’t have it,” she said bitterly. “And if I did, I would never trust the Clave with it. Most of them were Circle members too, and to be quite frank, the Clave’s policies are not always that much better than Valentine’s.”  
  
“What do you mean?” Jace demanded. The very idea was ludicrous. “The Clave doesn’t want the downworld harmed.”  
  
“The Clave seeks power, and fights to keep it,” Jocelyn said. “Nothing else. That has never changed, and never will.”  
  
“As a whole,” Jace argued. “But there are shadowhunters who seek to uphold the Accords and treat the downworld with respect, just like there are those who don’t. Valentine doesn’t just want power, he wants genocide. Don’t tell me there’s no difference.”  
  
“The goals may differ, but the methods are the same.” she replied. “You can’t deny that.”  
  
“Then why aren’t we out there hunting Valentine ourselves?” Jace demanded. “You can’t complain about the Clave and do nothing to stop Valentine yourself.”  
  
“I’m keeping Valentine’s greatest weapon out of his hands,” Jocelyn said. “You.”  
  
  
  
  
“I want the whole Institute put in lockdown,” Aline ordered. “Anyone coming in gets screened and anyone who wants to leave has to talk to me personally. Have the Brothers arrived yet?”  
  
“Not yet,” Starkweather said. He had a strange, almost scared look in his eyes, as if Aline’s presence terrified him. “The Portal should be opening soon.”  
  
“Good.” Aline surveyed the incident room, mostly deserted save for a few stragglers that had started pouring in. Many were injured—she would have to consider asking for reinforcements. “Sebastian, I want you to keep in contact with the Consul and make sure she has the latest reports. Also, figure out who’s accounted for and who’s still missing. We’ll start sending out teams once we come out of lockdown.”  
  
Her cousin nodded, his computer already in his arms. He was meticulous and reliable, and unlike so many others would never think to doubt her as a woman giving orders. Aline was very grateful he’d been dispatched to New York with her—she needed someone she could trust implicitly, and Sebastian was that someone.  
  
Starkweather hovered at her elbow, that peculiar look to his eyes.  
  
“The Consul says we’ve lost tracking on Jonathan Morgenstern, as well as his GPS beacon,” Sebastian said, his voice grim. “Valentine was prepared. We have no idea if Jonathan is dead or alive.”  
  
“Where was his last known location?”  
  
“I’ll request the dataset now.” Sebastian balanced the laptop precariously on the handrail and began to type. “Ah, someone’s uploaded it to the server already. Um, looks like he was portaled a few blocks away and the GPS was removed and destroyed—the signal stopped about fifteen minutes ago. It’s entirely possible but not very likely he’s still there—should we send a team?”  
  
“Is anyone in the area?”  
  
Sebastian frowned. “Looks like...Zahra and Reza Fajrhand, as well as the Lightwoods.”  
  
“Dispatch the Fajrhands to the scene and warn them it could be a trap.” Aline knew better than to send Isabelle—her judgment regarding her _parabatai_ would be clouded, and if they found a body—best to send someone else. “And get another team to assist them, if possible. Not the Lightwoods, recall them here with high priority. I don’t think they formally had permission to leave Alicante.”  
  
“Right.” Sebastian switched to his phone, brow furrowed in concentration.  
  
To Starkweather, she said, “Do we have any leads on how Valentine knew when we’d Portal in Jonathan Morgenstern?”  
  
“No—no, not yet,” Starkweather said quickly. “What seems most likely—to me, at least—is that he had a watch posted that would send a message when the Inquisitor’s envoy was spotted. It’s only logical Jonathan Morgenstern would be transferred here, and Valentine must know one cannot Portal in or out of the Institute itself.”  
  
“Possibly.” Aline examined the map of the shadowhunters scattered over New York. “But the attack on Staten Island was too coordinated to the time of Jonathan’s transfer. It suggests he either guessed or knew what time we would bring him from Alicante. Either way, the possibility of a mole cannot be disregarded.”  
  
“The Fajrhands are on their way,” Sebastian reported, before Starkweather could reply. “And the Lightwoods report they’re about ten minutes away from the Institute. We’ve got hits on three other teams, one of which needs evacuation for injuries. Also, the Silent Brothers should be Portaling in to treat the Inquisitor at any moment.”  
  
“Good. Text me when the Lightwoods arrive and arrange extraction for the injured teams. I’ll go to  meet with the Brothers.” Aline started for the Institute doors. “Mr. Starkweather, if you would accompany me?”  
  
“Yes, of course.” Starkweather hurried to follow, and Aline could sense Sebastian’s curious gaze on Starkweather as he passed by. Over the years his sense of political balance had become finely honed like her own—their discussion of Starkweather and his motives would be interesting indeed.  
  
Aline keyed in her personal code and opened the Institute doors. Brother Enoch and Zachariah stood solemnly on the stone path leading up to the steps, motionless as stone.  
  
“Brothers, welcome. Thank you for attending under such time constraint. The Inquisitor’s condition is indeed dire.” Aline clasped her hands behind her back, out of habit. “Please, this way.”  
  
The Brothers followed in silence, their movements smooth and gliding. Aline knew others found them unnerving, but she’d always admired their grace and unusual reticence, even when speaking in their thoughts.   
  
The Infirmary was silent as a grave. All their traditional runes of healing had failed—the Inquisitor’s condition was less-than-stable, deteriorating with worrying rapidity. She looked strangely small in the infirmary bed, always large and looming in Aline’s mind since Aline had been a child. Unless the Brothers could stabilize her wounds, she would die.  
  
 _We will tend Imogen Herondale from here, Aline Penhallow. Please leave us._   
  
Aline bowed her head and spun on her heel to exit, Starkweather trailing in her wake.   
  
“Do you think the Brothers can save Inquisitor Herondale?” he asked, sounding anxious. “It would—it would be unfortunate to lose her in such a crisis.”  
  
“We shall have to wait and see,” Aline replied, pausing outside in the hallway. “If you would, prepare an interview room for debriefing—I want to talk to everyone who had contact with Valentine or the Circle. There were absolutely no survivors of Valentine’s attack on the Inquisitor and Jonathan Morgenstern?”  
  
Starkweather shook his head. “Everyone in the detachment save the Inquisitor was dead by the time anyone inside the Institute even knew they had portaled in.”  
  
Aline’s phone vibrated and she powered the screen on briefly. Sebastian had texted her saying the Lightwoods had arrived. “I’ll be in the incident room if you need me.”  
  
Aline arrived in the incident room to see Isabelle jabbing a finger to Sebastian’s chest, an expression of terrible fury on her face. Sebastian looked rather distressed, holding up his computer as if hoping it might shield him from her fury.  
  
“You don’t know?” Isabelle repeated, her tone furious. “Well then who _does_ know? And who’s going to do something to find out?”  
  
“Um, well—we have a team, um, investigating his last known location—“  
  
“Alec. Isabelle.” Aline crossed her arms over her chest. “You didn’t have orders to leave Idris.”  
  
The Lightwoods both turned to her with varying levels of guilt on their faces, and Sebastian gave her a look of extreme relief. Isabelle looked both pleased and displeased to see her.  
  
“There was a general call. We answered.” Isabelle was unapologetic.   
  
“I have no reports of you joining the fight on Staten Island.” Aline strode closer, noticing the two mundanes standing in the Lightwoods’ shadows. “Would you like to explain where you’ve been and what you’ve been doing?”  
  
“Investigating our brother’s kidnapping by Jocelyn Fairchild.” Alec was the one to speak up this time. “No one seems to care, even though he was part of Valentine’s demands. There’s got to be a reason, and we have to get to him before Valentine does.”  
  
Aline resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose against a budding headache. Jace Wayland—Lightwood, Herondale, Morgenstern—was, of course, Alec’s parabatai, and of course he would be as protective of him as Isabelle was of Jonathan Morgenstern. The fact that they were both missing and both Valentine’s children complicated things to a ludicrous degree.   
  
“I understand your concerns,” she said, keeping her tone cool. “And I see no better people to search for him. But we are now at war, and in return for my support I need you to report back to me. Being unaccounted for three hours after disappearing without authorization from Idris is dangerous—we didn’t know if you were alive, injured, or dead.”  
  
Alec did look cowed at that, even if his sister did not.  
  
“And if we find him, will he be immediately imprisoned in Alicante?” Isabelle asked sharply. “Or will you lose him to Valentine, too?”  
  
Alec looked to his sister in alarm. “Izzy—“  
  
Aline leveled a hard look her way. “You know as well as I do I can’t make assurances in good conscience,” she said. “All I can do is give you the authorization and support you need and promise my support in the eventuality you do find Jace. You can, in turn, keep me informed of all developments and operations taken out on his behalf.”  
  
Isabelle stared at her, her expression frosty. The truth of it was, she had no choice—if she refused, Aline would have no option but to put her under house arrest. “Very well.”  
  
“Thank you.” Aline turned to Sebastian, who was watching the conversation with some discomfort. “Have the Fajrhands given any update on Jonathan Morgenstern’s last known location?”  
  
Sebastian nodded. “Zahra and Reza report the building is empty—it’s an old residential building that’s now derelict. They found some blood and the GPS device, which ostensibly had been removed. There’s no immediate evidence to suggest Jonathan or Valentine are in the area. And reports from Idris suggest attempts to track him have so far been unsuccessful.”  
  
Isabelle crossed her arms over her chest. She and Alec shared an unreadable look. Then, she said, “We had a lead that a warlock had placed a block on Clary Fray’s memory, that restricted her access to her memories of the shadow world. If unlocked, we hoped she might remember something that could lead us to Jocelyn Fairchild. The block cannot be removed, so our next move is to visit Lucian Greymark, now Luke Garroway. Attempts to track Jocelyn through her possessions were also unsuccessful.”  
  
Aline nodded, keeping her expression cold. “The Institute is currently under lockdown, but you have authorization to investigate any ties between Fairchild and Garroway. A more formal debriefing can be done at a later time. You are dismissed.”  
  
  
  
  
“I don’t like this,” Isabelle said. They’d gotten rid of the mundanes for a few minutes by leaving them to order pizza online, as Simon had been complaining about starvation for nearly an hour. They were arguing about toppings and speculating wildly on whether or not Izzy was allergic to anchovies.  
  
Alec glared his sister’s way, the frustration of the past few minutes not dissipated. “Tell me something I don’t know. Would you like to explain why you treated the Consul’s daughter like a two-rune lackey? She’s trying to help us find Jace—and Jonathan. She’s on our side.”  
  
“There is no ‘our side,’ Alec.” Isabelle said sharply. “There is our family, and there is everyone else. We protect our own over everyone else.”  
  
“Rules, orders, the entire war and the good of the Clave be damned?” Alec demanded. “Izzy, that’s insane. We take orders from the Clave, not the other way around. We need all the help we can get to find Jace before Valentine does, and pushing away Aline is not help. You said yourself she was the one who told you about Maryse moving to derune Jonathan without your knowledge—doesn’t that count for anything, or have you forgotten that already?”  
  
Izzy’s stormy expression softened, and her eyes lowered slightly, a sign she might actually have listened, for once. “You’re right. Aline isn’t the enemy.”  
  
Alec blinked away his surprise—it wasn’t often his sister came over to his side. “Look, I’m all for defending Jace, but we have to find him first. And to do that, we need to be working together, completely. I—I love you, Iz, and I wish I had your courage, but I also don’t want that courage and conviction to lead you away from what’s in our family’s best interest.”  
  
Izzy took a deep breath, let it out slowly. She looked tired, too tired, and Alec wondered when was the last time she slept properly. “Do you think I should apologize to Aline?”  
  
“You know her better than I do,” Alec said. “But keep your temper. You know I agree with you, but that doesn’t mean it’s best to say it aloud.”  
  
Isabelle nodded. “Okay. I’ll talk to her after we talk to Jocelyn’s werewolf friend.”  
  
Alec touched her shoulder, gently. “Are you ready to leave now?”  
  
“I think I can handle a conversation with a werewolf, Alec.”  
  
“No, I mean—you collapsed earlier. I just wanted to make sure—the pain isn’t too bad.”  
  
She looked surprised, as if shocked he could tell. He’d felt the occasional prickle from his own _parabatai_ rune, but he knew hers was likely taking a toll. He dreaded what would happen now that Valentine had Jonathan _and_ Max, and the urge to find the man and put a quiver of arrows through his skull intensified proportionally.  
  
“I’m fine.” Izzy offered him a smile. “And if I do suddenly swoon, think of it as a surprise trust fall.”  
  
Alec tried to find that funny and failed. “All right.”  
  
“Hey guys, do you like thin crust or regular better?” Simon called from the other room, crowded around Alec’s tablet. “Clary hates deep pan so we’re probably not going to do that, so if you have any preference—“  
  
“Regular. Thin crust is disgusting.” Izzy took the opportunity to duck away from him and join Clary and Simon. “Ugh, don’t order Domino’s, it’s the worst. I’ll pay for it,” she added, before either could protest. “We can call Papa John’s on the way to the Jade Wolf.”  
  
  
  
  
“Heads up boss, we’ve got some angelic assholes headed our way.”  
  
Luke looked up from the paperwork he’d been picking at with a quiet sigh. Alaric was a good detective and a good man, but he had a habit of forgetting Luke himself had once been Nephilim. Not that shadowhunters were all that good at remembering, either. “All right. I’ll talk to them.”  
  
Alaric nodded, thumbs looped into his belt. “Should I come with you?”  
  
“I’m good. Watch the place while I’m out—I’ve got a weird feeling about the guys in the right corner booth.” Luke pushed himself out of his booth, draining the last of his coffee. This had the potential to go very poorly—he was surprised the Clave hadn’t attempted to arrest him for interviewing already.  
  
As soon as he was outside he was surprised by arms around his shoulders and bright orange hair buried into his chest.  
  
“Clary,” he said, taken aback. His first thought was that Jocelyn would be horrified to see her daughter with shadowhunters on Clave business, and his second profound gratitude he could confirm with his own eyes she was alive and well. He’d been keeping tabs on all the rumors, of course, but Jocelyn had not contacted him and he had heard nothing from Clary since she’d called from the Institute. He returned her embrace, and she smelled more strongly of Nephilim now.  
  
“Do you know where Jocelyn is?” Clary asked, pulling away to look up at him with pleading in her eyes. “Why did she block my memories? How could she lie to me like this? Does she have the cup? Luke, why would she do any of this, I don’t understand—“  
  
“Woah, woah, woah,” Luke said, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “One question at a time.” He looked at the shadowhunters standing behind her, and was relieved to see Simon standing awkwardly between them. “Let’s go inside. I’ll tell you everything I can.”  
  
Clary was holding back tears with obvious effort. “Okay.” To the other two, she said, “C’mon, guys.”  
  
The shadowhunters, to their credit, did not make a move. “I’m Alec Lightwood, and this is my sister Isabelle,” said the young man, with formal politeness. “We’d like to ask you questions regarding official Clave business, but we can guarantee any information you provide will not be held on record, and we aknowledge we are on your pack’s territory by invitation only.”  
  
“You’re Maryse and Robert’s kids?” That was not, strictly speaking, a boon to either of them. Luke regarded them for a moment, then shrugged. “All right. Come on in.”  
  
Clary and Simon crowded into the booth across from his papers and Alec and Isabelle pulled up chairs a respectful distance away.  Alaric was eyeing them all with suspicion, a snarl but a quirk of the lips away. Luke shot a hard look his way, then sat down.  
  
“Okay,” he said in his calmest tones, and waited a moment until Clary met his gaze. “First off, I’m afraid I don’t know where Jocelyn is, and she hasn’t contacted me. But,” he said quickly as Clary’s face crumpled, “I think I can help you find a place to start looking. But before that—Clary, everything Jocelyn did, she did to protect you. Everything. We didn’t always see eye-to-eye on how to best protect you, but you are everything to her. Okay?”  
  
Clary gave a tiny nod, her eyes spilling over with shiny tears. Simon’s hand was in hers; Luke gently took the other one. “Okay. Where...where do we start?”  
  
“Have you spoken to Dot?”  
  
Clary bit her lip and her expression pinched. “Dot’s dead. The Circle killed her coming after my mom.” More tears welled in her eyes; she wiped them away. “She kidnapped another shadowhunter, why would she do that?”  
  
Luke frowned. “One of the Circle?”  
  
“No.” It was Isabelle who spoke. “Jace Wayland. Our brother.”  
  
“Michael Wayland’s son?”  
  
The two Lightwoods exchanged a fleeting look. “No. Well, we thought he was. He’s Celine and Stephen Herondale’s son.”  
  
“That’s not possible.” Luke shook his head. “Celine’s son was stillborn. She took her own life, and Stephen died soon after.”  
  
“Valentine stole him at birth,” Clary said. “Luke, how did my mother know Valentine? She never would have joined the Circle, she voted for Obama two terms in a row.”  
  
Luke looked at her in shock. Had they told her nothing of Jocelyn’s past as a shadowhunter? Had they assumed she knew? Taking a deep breath, he said, “Clary, Valentine and Jocelyn were married.”  
  
Clary blinked and her mouth parted slightly in shock and, if her pale expression was anything to go by, horror. “Am...is...is he...?”  
  
Luke looked quickly to the Lightwoods, and by their expressions he guessed they didn’t know either. If he lied to her, that would be his responsibility, but he could imagine Jocelyn’s anger and hurt if he were to betray her like this. She should be the one to tell Clary—they both knew that. “I don’t think so,” he said, in his most reassuring tones, an invisible blade twisting in his chest. “Jocelyn always told me your father was John Fray.”  
  
Clary sagged onto Simon’s shoulder, somewhere between horror and relief. “I can’t believe...I can’t believe she’d marry someone like that.”  
  
“He wasn’t always that way,” Luke said, a bit defensively, and he didn’t know whether it was himself, Jocelyn, or Valentine himself he was defending. “Clary, I’m sorry you couldn’t hear all this from your mother herself. I know she’d be here if she could.”  
  
“You don’t think she’s hurt, do you?” Clary’s tone was a bit panicked. “Luke, she’s an artist from Brooklyn, I really don’t think—“  
  
“Your mother is one of the most cunning, intelligent, and capable shadowhunters I’ve ever known,” Luke said firmly. “You never knew that side of her, Clary, or at least not yet, but I assure you, it’s there. She’s fine, and she is very much a shadowhunter.”  
  
That being said, Valentine was the most cunning shadowhunter he’d known, perhaps ever to live. The thought of Jocelyn out there alone, on the run, made his gut twist.  
  
Clary nodded, not convinced but comforted somewhat. “Without Dot, where should we look?”  
  
“Go to Elliot,” Luke said. “You remember, he runs the old bookstore. He’s a warlock, too. Your mother told him more about those things than she told me. I’ll send out the pack to look.”  
  
And he’d talk to Magnus Bane. Luke wasn’t sure if they knew he was involved yet, but if they had, Magnus wouldn’t have told them anything if he knew.  
  
“We’ve got company,” Alaric announced suddenly, bursting in through the side door. “More Nephilim, and they don’t look friendly.”  
  
“That’s not the Clave,” Isabelle said quickly. “The Institute is in lockdown.”  
  
“The Circle,” Luke said, feeling something tight and feral curling in his gut. “All of you, out of here. We’ll deal with this.”  
  
“Luke—“ Clary began, her eyes wide.  
  
“With all due respect, our mandate is to protect the downworld from threats,” Alec said, also standing. “We can’t just leave.”  
  
Luke looked them over quickly. They were soldiers, not like Clary and Simon. “Fine. But you take orders from me. Clary, Simon, you stay here. I mean it.”  
  
Clary opened her mouth to protest but Simon grabbed her arm and pulled her down. “Clary, I think we should trust Luke here,” he said. “We’re just gonna get in the way.”  
  
Clary looked upset, but did not move to do anything else. Luke waved the other wolves towards the door, the prospect of violence already thrilling his blood. He pushed the door open and strode into the parking lot, the sun hot and bright in his eyes.  
  
Valentine had sent five soldiers—an insulting number, really. Alaric and Maia growled at his sides, ready for a fight. The Circle shadowhunters had their weapons drawn  
  
“Hold up,” Luke said aloud, to the pack as well as the two Lightwoods. To the Circle shadowhunters, he said, “I suggest you turn back now.”  
  
“Lucian,” said their leader. Luke recognized her as Marianne Quillock—they’d fought side by side, once. He’d thought her long dead by now. “Where is Jocelyn?”  
  
“Ask someone who knows.” Luke took a step closer, ready any second to give the command to attack. “And get the hell out of my parking lot. This is a respectable business.”  
  
“I’m warning you, Lucian. The next time I ask won’t be so pleasant.” The runes on Quillock’s blade ignited and the shadowhunter behind her drew a crossbow—  
  
“Now!” Luke shouted, and the second the word left his mouth the Lightwood boy loosed an arrow into the crossbow carrier’s skull. Pain and heat tore up his back and Luke transformed, bounding forward and hurling himself at Quillock, her blade knocked aside like a child’s toy. A brief struggle, a slash of his claws, and she lay still.   
  
Maia and Alaric were harrying at a shadowhunter armed with two seraph blades, the Lightwood girl lashing out with a whip to deadly affect. Luke leapt and slammed into a woman about to drive her blade into a wolf’s back and the blow glanced off the wolf’s flank. She threw him off and lashed out at him with her blade, but fell to another of the Lightwood boy’s arrows.  Luke whirled around and sank his teeth into a struggling shadowhunter’s shoulder and Isabelle dispatched her with a flick of her wrist. At the same time, Maia and Alaric downed the last straggler with ferocious snarls, tearing at the man’s throat.  
  
“That was fun,” Isabelle said, looking rather delighted. “Alec, let’s give them some privacy while they get decent.”  
  
A newcomer called Hussein growled her way, which she ignored. Luke glanced around quickly—only a few light injuries, some slightly more serious than others. He had to grudgingly admit if it weren’t for the Lightwoods, it might have been much worse.   
  
He made for the boathouse and transformed back, throwing on a spare change of clothes he’d left in a canoe for emergencies. The other wolves had either followed him or slunk off into the bushes or the Jade Wolf to transform back; Alaric was already clothed and poking around Quillock’s jacket.  
  
“The phone melted as soon as I touched it,” he admitted, when he saw Luke approach. “Nothing useful on any of them, except those metal stick things.”  
  
“Keep looking,” Luke said, then added, “Put that down,” as Maia lifted a rather nice leather jacket off one of the dead Circle member’s back. She made a face but complied. Luke made his way back to the restaurant, where Simon and Clary were anxiously poking their faces out the door.  
  
“More will come,” Alec said, in a grim but pragmatic sort of way. “We’ll send reinforcements to protect you—or stay—“  
  
“That’s fine,” Luke said firmly. The idea of Clary and Simon being in danger any longer was an unpleasant one, and he had no desire for the Clave to descend _en masse_ on the Jade Wolf. The Lightwoods could and, Luke was now much more confident, would protect them. “You guys get going looking for Jocelyn. We’ll handle this. Our territory,” he added, as Isabelle opened her mouth to protest.  
  
Clary threw her arms around him again, and only now did Luke notice he was bleeding slightly, a scratch on his ribs. “I’ll call you when we get back to the Institute.”  
  
“Good.” Luke squeezed her tight. “All right, get going, or I’ll chase you out myself.”  
  
Clary grinned up at him, for the first time looking almost like her old self again. “Barking and everything?”  
  
“I’ll forget you said that.” Luke let go and ruffled her hair, then opted for a tasteful handshake with Simon. Then, with a last goodbye, they left, and Luke forced himself to believe they would be safe.  
  
  
  
  
  
“So what do you think of Starkweather?”  
  
Sebastian looked up from his screen, where he’d been reading a brief from Idris on the projected paths of action Valentine could pursue. Aline had been curled up in the armchair next to his in her new office for a few hours, silently filling in reports and reading debriefings. The fire in the fireplace sent a warm glow and faint heat radiating around the room. “As a shadowhunter or as the head of the Institute?”  
  
“Both. Your impressions.” She offered him a refill of his tea mug, which he accepted gratefully. The most distressing thing about New York so far, other than the huge blocky buildings and generally poor reputation, was that people microwaved their tea.   
  
“He’s hiding something, but what Institute head isn’t?” Sebastian said. “The question is whether it’s an impropriety with a junior shadowhunter or a prominent downworlder pop star, or something slightly more sinister.”  
  
Aline gave a crooked smile. “Considering how much he gets out, I think we can rule out downworlder pop star affair.”  
  
“He can’t account for how Valentine knew to coordinate his attacks, but that’s not necessarily his fault,” Sebastian continued, and Aline nodded. “Valentine could easily have a mole in Alicante, or have even tapped our communication network. Or, if the Inquisitor’s theories are correct about Jonathan Morgenstern, even communicated with him directly. There is still much about him the Inquisitor could not ascertain.”  
  
“Jia asked if she should move to remove Starkweather as the head of the Institute,” Aline said. “I think we should advise her to leave him for now, but watch him and the other shadowhunters here carefully. There are certain families here I’m inclined to trust, but even they are not above suspicion.”  
  
“The Lightwoods included, I presume,” Sebastian said. He did not like how the younger Lightwood, Isabelle, responded to Aline’s reasonable orders for oversight—though he could see her motives, his instincts warned him against taking her or her brother at their word. Maryse and Robert were famously ruthless, should the need arise. “Being so close to Valentine, surely they must have suspected Jace Wayland was not who he was supposed to be.”  
  
Sebastian did not trust easily—it was in his nature. He saw peoples’ flaws too easily to ever presume they would act for the general good. And he’d watched the Clave’s machinations for too long to assume even when people acted towards their perception of good that the results would be anything like it.  
  
“The question of Jace Herondale is a tricky one,” Aline agreed. “The Inquisitor will no doubt fight for his protection—he is, after all, the last hope for the continuation of her lineage, and we all know how much she values her family line. Others will likely call for his execution as they did with Jonathan Morgenstern. As it stands, we have no real way to corroborate Jonathan’s testimony—the claims of the Angel’s blood could be completely made up.”  
  
Sebastian frowned. “He was questioned with the Soul Sword.”  
  
“It compels the truth from Nephilim,” Aline pointed out. “We don’t know if demon blood countermands the effects. And assuming Valentine makes good on his word to kill him—which is a big assumption—we may never know.”  
  
“So we watch,” Sebastian said. “And we wait. That’s not exactly the best strategy.”  
  
She grimaced. “Unfortunately, Valentine and others hold all the cards. If we can find Jocelyn Fairchild, that could change, but before that the advantage is his. All we can do is search for him, but he could be anywhere.”  
  
“And her daughter’s testimony?”  
  
“Pretty much useless,” Aline said. “If Isabelle is right about the memory block, it would explain a lot. She had no recollection of her mother speaking of the Cup or Valentine before the night she encountered the Lightwoods, or anything else that could be deemed of interest.”  
  
“Was she questioned with the Sword? She could be lying.”  
  
“No,” Aline admitted. “The Inquisitor was busy questioning Jonathan at the time, and he was the priority. The Inquisitor did ask him whether Clary has Morgenstern blood as well but he couldn’t answer, which suggests for now that her father could have been the mundane she claims, and she really had no idea of any of this.” She sighed, shook her head. “It’s amazing how fast things can fall apart, isn’t it? We’ve truly been complacent.”  
  
Sebastian took a deep sip of his tea. “Perhaps just hopeful.”  
  
Aline gave him another crooked smile. “Hope isn’t a strategy.”  
  
“Come now. You know how paranoid the Clave is. Money says there’s a contingency plan for this situation, and thousands like it.” He gave a cynical smile. “It’s not like we would know anything about it if there were.”  
  
“Touche.” Aline re-arranged her computer on her lap. “Well, if there is, I hope it’s deployed soon, because Valentine and the Circle are making us look rather stupid.”  
  
Before Sebastian could argue with that a knock sounded on the door. Aline straightened immediately and rose to answer, cool and professional. It was Isabelle Lightwood, looking much less angry and impudent than before.  
  
“Aline,” she said. “Could I speak with you a moment?”  
  
“Of course.” Aline gave him a brief smile, then followed Isabelle into the hall, pulling the door shut behind her. Sebastian took another sip of his tea and kept reading.  
  
  
  
Alec settled onto his stomach, propping himself up on his arms. He’d found Jace’s copy of the Codex in his room, and was flipping through it for the little notes in Jace’s neat, straight hand, _like copper works as well as silver_ and _concentrated acid like drain cleaner can damage runes in a pinch_. It was a little bit concerning but also slightly amusing, and made him miss Jace with a physical ache in his chest, like the breath had been knocked from him.  
  
Alec’s phone vibrated on his bedside table and he rolled over to grab it. Instead of a text from Izzy or Maryse it was from a number he didn’t recognize, and read,  
  
 _> Did it hurt when you fell from heaven? _  
  
Alec frowned, swiping open his phone and staring at his messaging app in confusion. He wasn’t sure if this was a threat or some kind of prophetic nonsense, or maybe poetry. Unable to come up with a decent question that encompassed these three options, Alec replied,  
  
 _< Who is this?_  
  
The typing bubble appeared and Alec watched with a great deal of curiosity.  
  
 _> Whoops_  
 _> Magnus Bane_  
 _> Still used to phone calls where people can recognize my voice, I suppose XD_  
  
Alec frowned. Why was the High Warlock of Brooklyn texting him on a Tuesday evening to ask him completely nonsensical questions? And why did he type like a 12 year old mundane? A more important and pressing question occurred to him and he typed out,  
  
 _< You were alive when landlines were a thing, right?_  
  
 _> Unless I am very much mistaken, you were alive for landlines, too._  
  
Oh yeah.  
  
 _< Why did you want my number?_  
  
A pause. Then,  
  
 _> I would have thought that was obvious. To talk to you._  
  
 _>   I’m afraid I’m not very interesting_  
 _> I usually leave that to my sister_  
 _> I mean unless you want to talk about archery but other than that_  
  
 _> You definitely strike me as the shy type ;)_  
 _> If you want, you can ask me questions instead_  
 _> There’s much to be curious about_  
  
The thought was definitely intriguing, and a welcome respite from thinking about Jace, where he was and whether he was injured, or in danger. He racked his brains for interesting questions to ask, then finally gave up and said,  
  
 _< What’s your favorite color?_  
  
 _> ...._  
 _> Chartreuse_  
  
Alec pulled up his browser and googled chartreuse.   
  
_< Oh that’s nice_  
 _< Blue and green but more in between_  
 _< Mine’s grey_  
  
 _> There is no greater tragedy known to man than the ‘color’ grey, Alexander._  
 _> If you had to pick something that is not a hue but an actual color what would it be?_  
  
Alec thought a moment.   
  
_< Green I guess_  
 _< Did you ever meet a king or queen?_  
  
 _> Many. Elizabeth and I watch soaps together sometimes_  
 _> She cheats at bridge. Terrible scoundrel_  
  
Alec laughed, trying to imagine the queen and Magnus Bane watching some mundane TV show and bickering over whatever bridge was.  
  
 _< How about Vlad the Impaler?_  
 _< Before the Clave caught up to him obviously_  
  
 _> Oh yes. Though I will say I did more of the impaling than he did winkey emoji_  
 _> He was actually a terrible bore_  
 _> I also had the misfortune to meet Countess Ezrebet Bathory and let me tell you, that lady had an appetite. Could drink an entire man in under a minute. Made Vlad look like a friendly mosquito._  
  
Alec spluttered a little at the first line, and grinned in amusement at the second.  
  
 _< Sounds like a character_  
 _< Amazing she was never executed_  
  
 _> She was well-connected. There is of course the rumor that she slept with the Inquisitor of the Clave, but that was never proven_  
  
By the Angel. The thought alone made Alec’s skin crawl. A thought occurred to him and his grin faded as he wrote,  
  
 _< Did you ever meet Valentine?_  
  
 _> Saint Valentine? Yes, I happened to be there for his execution—well, now they call it martyrdom. Had a terribly foul mouth for a saint._  
  
 _< No, like Valentine Morgenstern._  
  
 _> Ah. unfortunately, yes, but only briefly. it was unfortunate because I failed to have the foresight to banish the bastard directly to hell._  
 _> Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a client coming in a few moments._  
  
Alec blinked, suddenly filled with unease. He felt he’d done something wrong, said something to offend the warlock, but he wasn’t sure what about the mention of Valentine had done it. Izzy had always told him that shadowhunters were brutally indelicate when talking to downworlders, and with a surge of guilt Alec supposed he’d unthinkingly done the same. He’d just been curious—hadn’t been thinking.  
  
 _You don’t have to think,_ Izzy would have said. _That’s the problem._  
  
But Valentine was his problem now, and so was Magnus Bane. Alec had painstakingly built up resistance to his fear of disappointing people, but this was different—he wanted Magnus to like him in a way he’d never wanted someone to like him before. And he’d fucked it up.

< _I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked._

He didn't know what to say after that.   
  
Alec threw down his phone on his pillow and got up off the bed, attempting to banishing all self-pity. He was a shadowhunter—no, he corrected himself with a surge of bitterness that surprised him—he was a Lightwood. And if he wanted to live up to that name he wasn’t going to do it by lying around in bed offending powerful, charming warlocks over text.  
  
Gritting his teeth, Alec picked up his phone and Jace’s favorite copy of _A Tale of Two Cities_. He’d tried tracking him an untold, incredibly frustrating number of times to no avail, but he had resolved to try again, and again, and again, until Jace was found—alive, or otherwise.  
  
  
  
  
“I’m sorry about what I said before,” Isabelle said as they walked, keeping her voice professional. It sounded a bit strange to her ears, but she hoped Aline would appreciate her sincerity. “You’ve done nothing but help us, and help me, and I trust you to make the right calls.”  
  
Aline looked a little surprised, and Izzy for once regretted her reputation as a hothead. “Thank you. I hope I can continue to earn that trust.”      
  
“And I hope I can earn yours.” Izzy meant that—Aline was a powerful shadowhunter, not only in combat but in political prowess, and a profoundly capable leader. The fact she was heading up the Institute in a time of crisis showed the Clave had taken notice. “We spoke to Luke Garroway, and he claims Jocelyn hasn’t contacted him or told him where she might hide. He referred us to a warlock called Dorthea Rollins who unfortunately died in the Circle’s attack on Jocelyn, as well as another warlock called Eliott Dunne. We’ll interview Eliott tomorrow. But he confirmed the block on Clary’s memory. He wasn’t sure why Jocelyn would kidnap Jace, but he insisted he couldn’t be a Herondale. He said Celine and Stephen died shortly after their child was stillborn. Then five Circle members attacked Luke’s pack, demanding to know where Jocelyn was.”  
  
Aline’s eyebrows shot up. “He attacked Garroway’s pack?”  
  
“I spoke to my mother, and she told me Luke Garroway was Lucian Greymark,” Izzy said. “Valentine’s _parabatai_ , before he was turned. He and Jocelyn took down the Circle the first time Valentine faked his death. It makes sense he’d assume Luke would know where Jocelyn is.”  
  
Aline’s expression creased. “And you really believe he doesn’t know?”  
  
“I do,” Izzy said, a bit uncertainly. “He said he’d help look for her, and he really cares about Clary, Jocelyn’s daughter. I’ve asked my downworld contacts about him, and he’s known for being honest and reliable.”  
  
“I’ll report what you’ve told me,” Aline said. “Thank you, Isabelle.” Her expression turned sly. “So I see you’re already terrifying poor Sebastian.”  
  
Izzy winced. “That was your cousin?”  
  
Aline grinned. “Yep. I told you he’s fragile. If you’d kept yelling at him, I guarantee I’d have to chase him out of the library rafters with a broom.”  
  
Izzy chuckled at the mental image. “Well, I’m glad I didn’t inspire that level of terror.” She allowed herself a mischievous smile. “But he is very cute. Can I get him to read the phone book to me?”  
  
He looked a little familiar somehow. Izzy couldn’t place it. Was it the dark hair, or just that all tall white boys looked vaguely the same?  
  
“I’ll put him on it right away.” Aline stopped at the stairwell, glancing around before she said, “Speaking of cute, when we’re alone, I need to talk to you about the ginger girl. Clary.”  
  
Izzy’s heart skidded for some reason she couldn’t fathom. She hoped her smile didn’t falter. “What about her?”  
  
Aline’s phone vibrated loudly and she grimaced. “It’s the Consul. I have to take this, sorry.” She started quickly down the hall back towards her office, where Sebastian Verlac waited. Izzy watched her go with very confusing, strange emotions, then hurried off to find something else to do.  
  
  
  
  
Simon wandered idly through the Institute’s halls, admiring the architecture and trying not to make eye contact with anyone. Clary was alone in Izzy’s room, drawing and probably trying to come to terms with the fact her mom’s ex was Angel Hitler. Simon, for his part, was letting her have that alone time, and also busily maintaining his belief that he would probably wake up soon.  
  
The main tactical room was almost completely deserted, the colorful displays throwing eerie shadows on the walls and floor. A lone figure stood in the room, watching a map of what Simon recognized as Amsterdam (thanks, geography bee championships in tenth grade). Simon recognized him as the guy Izzy had been yelling at earlier, and fuck, he was really cute. Why was every single shadowhunter dude unrealistically hot and probably entirely and utterly unavailable?   
  
“Hi,” said Simon, and what the hell Lewis, not smooth at all. “Uh, I was just looking for the uh, bathroom.”  
  
“Down the hall, to the left,” hot guy said, and damn, that accent. “Can’t miss it. Are you really a mundane?”  
  
He didn’t say it the way Jace or Alec said it, like it was an insult, but more like the clueless way _goyim_ asked him what living in Israel was like. It was a bit bizarre, but to be honest considering Simon’s alternative options he’d take it. “Uh, yeah. Born and raised.”  
  
Hot guy’s interest was piqued. “I’ve never spoken to a mundane before,” he said, and he looked rather intrigued by the prospect, as if Simon invented the cure to cancer or something. “Are those glasses to correct your vision?”  
  
“Uh, yeah,” Simon said, a bit confused. “What else would they be for? And uh, what’s your name again?”  
  
“My apologies. Sebastian Verlac.” Hot guy replied, and stepped forward to shake Simon’s hand. “That’s very fascinating. Nephilim are usually born with perfect vision, and if not their eyes are cured with runes, though there’s no cure for blindness.” Sebastian peered intensely at Simon’s glasses. “Concave and convex lenses to focus light. How novel. Truly amazing what your kind come up with to make up for a lack of runes.”  
  
“I’m guessing you don’t get out much,” Simon said.  
  
Sebastian didn’t seem to hear, too busy inspecting Simon for any other exciting oddities. “Is it true that mundanes cement their limbs to treat fractures? Or sew together wounds with needle and thread?”  
  
“Uh, yeah, casts are a thing,” said Simon, a bit anxiously. “And I’ve gotten stitches, I hit myself in the face with my guitar when I was ten.”  
  
Sebastian looked very impressed. “That must have been very painful.”  
  
“It was,” said Simon, feeling intensely gratified. Even Clary had laughed at him, though she’d brought him ice cream and popsicles in the car ride home from the hospital and let him beat her at Scrabble as an apology. He gestured to the consoles around the room. “So what do these things run on, anyway? I’ve never seen this OS.”  
  
“You wouldn’t have,” Sebastian said, brightening at the question. “The Clave developed it. The best way I can explain it is it’s an offshoot of Unix that operates as a sort of hypervisor off each individual piece of hardware, with the system image being stored at a central location networked to each device. The networking architecture is quite complicated, but in very basic terms there’s a separate domain lookup service maintained by Clave servers that piggybacks on mundane infrastructure. There’s been talk of generating a rudimentary neural net between the aggregate of devices, but we’re limited by what mundane researchers discover, as the Clave doesn’t perform much technological research of its own.”  
  
“Wait, but then how haven’t mundane hackers run across your servers by accident?” Simon asked. “Assuming your addresses work like ours.”  
  
“That’s the clever part,” Sebastian said, looking very pleased. “The authentication protocol for our DNS servers and others is partly runic in nature—no one but a shadowhunter can authenticate. It comes very handy in encryption, too, and someone’s working on modifying our firewall firmware with runes, too—I don’t fully understand it, but I can show you. If you want,” he added.  
  
“Sure,” said Simon. “I mean yes, please, um, that would be cool.”  
  
While Sebastian was talking, Simon had ample time to notice how pretty his lips were, and oh boy was it doing things to him. _Too gay to function, Lewis_ , he told himself as Sebastian led him down a level to inspect the Institute’s networking racks. Electronic heat hit him in a wave, and Simon instantly appreciated they must be doing something magic-related to be able to keep so much equipment in such a small space.  
  
“I think it was a broom closet before,” Sebastian said, a bit disapprovingly, as Simon squeezed in next to him. “The Clave has only modernized recently, you see.”  
  
“Oh,” said Simon. Sebastian was wearing a too-big caramel-colored cardigan that bunched up around his wrists and a soft colored polo shirt, and his eyelashes were really long and his eyes were a light, pretty shade of blue. “Are these the old Cisco switches? My dad used to love playing with these things. I don’t think he actually understood how they worked, but he was determined.”  
  
“I think they are,” Sebastian replied. “We’ve boosted fiber optic speed with runes, which is mildly amusing if you think about it. Someone applied a _swift_ rune to a cable to make it transmit faster and it worked.”  
  
“Oh yeah? That is sort of weird.” It was very hot in the enclosed space, and Simon could feel himself sweating. After a while he realized that Sebastian had stopped talking, and was acutely aware they were standing less than a foot apart. “So uh, do you have any pets?”  
  
“Um, no,” Sebastian said, a bit awkwardly, and fuck, he was looking at Simon weird. Whether it was the ‘I’m straight’ weird or the ‘I want to take off all my clothes and make sweet love to you until we both have a heart attack and die’ weird, Simon couldn’t quite tell. He had a feeling it might be both. “But I’ve been told there’s a feral cat that lives here and to avoid it.”   
  
“Oh, yeah?” Anxiously, Simon looked up, and he could see a flush on Sebastian’s high cheekbones. Simon’s pulse was racing, a weird fluttery feeling in his chest. The tip of Sebastian’s tongue wet his lips and _fuck_ —  
  
“How badly do you need your glasses to see?” Sebastian blurted out before Simon leaned in and kissed him. One of the few things beside music and being a general nuisance that Simon had been told he was genuinely good at was kissing, which was good because Simon was a pretty big fan of that activity. Sebastian...well, he wasn’t, a bit wet and very sloppy, but he made a cute little noise when their tongues touched and his hand fluttered tentatively to Simon’s cheek and he was enthusiastic if nothing else.  
  
Then he pulled back, breathing hard as if he’d been attacked by a rabid orc, eyes wide and a bit terrified.  
  
“I—sorry—“ Simon said, a little panicked. “Sorry I just—I don’t know uh, sorry—“  
  
“No, I’m—I’m sorry I shouldn’t have—“ Sebastian broke off, covering his mouth with a hand. His hand was long and pale and looked shaky, and fuck, if Simon made out with a straight boy in a fucking closet Clary was _never_ going to let him hear the end of it. Provided he didn’t drop dead from sheer embarrassment first. “Don’t—please don’t tell anyone.”  
  
“What? No, no, don’t worry.” Simon put on what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Seriously dude, I got shadowhunters aren’t really the most tolerant people already.”  
  
Sebastian pulled his hand from his mouth and turned away, still unsteady. Simon felt a wave of pity, and also guilt. “Do...do mundanes do that?” he asked. “In public?”  
  
The way he said _in public_ made him sound a bit like a scandalized Victorian lady, but given the circumstance Simon couldn’t really find it funny. “Uh, yes, and no. Like, it’s sort of controversial, but yeah, being gay is like, cool now, I guess. I mean, unless you go to like, Alabama you probably won’t get like, murdered, usually, like I mean unless you go out late or drive a pink punch-buggy or carry a purse or watch RuPaul’s drag race on the metro—“  
  
He realized he was babbling and shut up. “Are you uh, are you okay?”  
  
Sebastian nodded quickly, and fuck, things were now back to being awkward, and not even in the romantically-charged way, just in the “stuck in a sweaty closet” way.  
  
“You go out first,” Simon said, chivalrously. “And I’ll follow a tasteful five minutes later. Sound good?”  
  
“Yes, good.” A pause and then, “It was, um, very nice,” Sebastian blurted out, then grabbed the doorknob and hurried out with almost superhuman speed before Simon could formulate a reply.  
  
  
  
  
“No, I am _not_ interested in buying cookies, I’ve already got a lifetime’s supply of Thin Mints—oh. Lucian.” Magnus stared at him through the door. “What are you doing here?”  
  
“Has Jocelyn been to see you?”  
  
Magnus’ eyes rolled theatrically. “You Nephilim are always more trouble than it’s worth. Why do you think I know where everyone in New York is at any point in time?”  
  
“Dot’s dead,” Luke said. “She died protecting Jocelyn and the Cup from the Circle.”  
  
Magnus blinked, and all pretense faded from his face. His hand slipped off the door and he waved it open with a hand, gesturing Luke inside his apartment. “I’m sorry to hear that. Dorthea was a brilliant warlock, and a good friend.”  
  
“Has Jocelyn been to see you?” Luke asked again, as soon as Magnus had shut the door. “You know I wouldn’t come knocking if it wasn’t important, Magnus. The Cup—“  
  
“You don’t have to lecture me about the perils of Mortal Instruments in the hands of a maniac,” Magnus interrupted, a bit sharply. “Yes, I have seen Jocelyn. But before you ask, she made me swear not to tell anyone anything else, and made no exception for you.”  
  
Now it was Luke’s turn to be surprised. He had thought Jocelyn would welcome his support—or, perhaps, he had hoped. “Do you know where she is?”  
  
“No.” Magnus turned away, picked up a slim glass filled with what at first glance Luke thought was champagne but was actually sparkling apple juice, by the smell. “She’s found Jonathan Christopher.”  
  
“That’s impossible.” First Celine and Stephen having a son, now Valentine and Jocelyn’s son returned from the dead. “Jonathan died when he was an infant.”  
  
“Apparently not.” Magnus folded his arms over his chest. “I think you can reason out her plan from there.”  
  
Luke could. Valentine would want his son back more than anything, save the Cup. Jocelyn would lure him in with the boy as bait, then kill them both. The Cup was far too valuable to use as a lure, but Jonathan was, as children often were, expendable. “I see.”  
  
“You see why she’d rather not involve you or her daughter.” Magnus’ tone was dark, and rich with bitterness. He had never agreed with Jocelyn’s approach to much of anything, and made no effort to hide it. “I’d leave her alone until she resurfaces. She always does. In the meantime, the best thing you can do for Jocelyn is keep her daughter safe.”  
  
Clary. “She’s with the Clave. She’s safe.”  
  
Magnus’ eyebrows raised. “I don’t think ‘the Clave’ and ‘safe’ have ever gone together in one sentence without a negative.”  
  
“The Lightwood children are with her. They’ll keep her safe.” Luke’s confidence was false, but it was all he had.  
  
Magnus’ expression pinched slightly. “Yes, the Lightwoods. Interesting how they’ve turned out.” He took another sip of sparkling apple juice. “Lucian, promise me you won’t go looking for Jocelyn. If she wanted to be found, she’d have contacted you already. Wait for her to come back. You know she will.”  
  
“I can’t promise that,” Luke said. “Is that your advice? Sit on my hands and do nothing?”  
  
“Until a better option presents itself? Yes.” Magnus curled his fingers and a tray of cookies lifted itself Luke’s way. “Thin Mint?”  
  
Luke pushed the tray away. “You’ve become more cynical over the years, Magnus.”  
  
“Yes, well. A bad breakup and the systematic abuse of the downworld by the Nephilim will do that to you.” Magnus plucked a Thin Mint off the tray and chewed on it, thoughtfully. “Maybe I should take that vacation. I’ve heard interdimensional travel is all the rage these days.”  
  
“Just tell me where she is, Magnus. I just need to know she’s safe.”  
  
Magnus gave a very put-upon sigh. “I’ll tell you if she’s in danger. You have my word. Now go, my _F.R.I.E.N.D.S_ re-runs are starting, and I don’t intend to miss them.”  
  
  
  
  
Jonathan Morgenstern woke to sweltering heat and agonizing pain, and deliriously wondered if he’d finally been landed in hell. Drowsily, he searched his memory for an explanation, and recalled being dragged down a hall with flickering fluorescent lights, by his injured leg—injured in a fight—and before that a building of crumbling concrete and something injected in his neck and then a tearing pain. Before that, green grass and stone—the Institute steps. The fight, the Inquisitor, a sword in her chest— _Phaesphoros_ —  
  
His father.  
  
Jonathan jolted upright, pain flaring up his leg like a lick of fire. A jerk on his neck and he collapsed, falling back down onto the heavy metal grate. The Clave’s restraints had been shackled to the floor so that he could only move so far in any direction, like an unruly animal tied to a post.  
  
Panic bubbled in Jonathan’s chest and he yanked fruitlessly at his chains, a cry escaping his gritted teeth as another stab of pain shot up and down his leg. The heat truly was too much—he was soaked with sweat, parched, and weak from his injuries, exhausted in a way that tugged at every joint of his body, weighing him down like lead.   
  
“Jonathan.”  
  
His father’s voice. Jonathan froze. He was sitting in a rusted chair in the corner of the room, elbows propped on his knees. He was watching Jonathan carefully, as if he were a very poisonous thing trapped in a cage. “You’re awake. Good. I wasn’t sure if that dose would be too much or not.”  
  
Jonathan said nothing, terrified Valentine could see his heart trembling in his chest. “What do you want from me?”  
  
Valentine looked amused. “The Clave didn’t even tell you that much?” He shifted in the chair, leaning back. “You were my greatest mistake, Jonathan. I aim to correct my mistakes.”  
  
“The Clave was going to execute me. I don’t see why you bothered to kidnap me so you could do it yourself.”  
  
Valentine smiled, humorlessly, and there was something familiar and terrifying about it. “The Clave was brought you to New York to keep their hostages alive. I simply thwarted their ill-considered plans to track me through you.” His head tilted slightly, as if curious. “Did you really think the Clave wouldn’t lie to you?”  
  
“I don’t care about the Clave.” Jonathan struggled to push himself up on his elbows, his shoulders screaming in protest. His neck ached and his clothes stuck to him, damp with sweat and blood. “What are you waiting for? I doubt it was to say one last emotional goodbye to your only son.”  
  
Valentine didn’t answer, leaning forward in his chair, looking over Jonathan with black eyes. “You really did try so hard to fool them. You took that accent so they wouldn’t think of me every time you spoke. And you even dyed your hair. Pretended to be human. Did you pretend to love the Lightwoods? You must have, if the Lightwood girl agreed to be your _parabatai_.”  
  
“I didn’t want to be like you because I hate you,” Jonathan snapped. “I didn’t even use your training, because you gave it to me.”  
  
He couldn’t talk about the Lightwoods. The thought of Isabelle was painful—she would suffer on his behalf. _I love you, Jonathan. I will always believe in you. You will always be my parabatai._  
  
Valentine looked unbothered by this information, his eyes cool and steady. “Where is Jace?”  
  
“I don’t know.” Jonathan’s head ached as if it might burst at any second. Of course his father only took him to chase after his little brat brother. Jonathan Herondale, the golden angel boy. Jonathan dearly hoped wherever he was, Jocelyn was kicking the shit out of him. She’d never liked children, especially her own. “I’m not my brother’s keeper.”  
  
“Said Cain of Abel,” said his father. “How fitting.” He stood, and he seemed to tower over Jonathan. “Where is Jace?”  
  
“I don’t know!” Mention of Jace had inflamed his temper; he snarled up at Valentine with all his hatred. “And if I did, I wouldn’t fucking tell you.”  
  
The heel of Valentine’s boot lifted and came down on Jonathan’s thigh, right over where the Inquisitor’s blade had pierced it. Jonathan screamed, and kept screaming as the pain and his father’s boot did not let up, writhing on the metal grate. By the time Valentine finally let him go, he was wracked with hard, panicked sobs, unstoppable as the pain itself. He would have given anything to have the Inquisitor back, as much as she hated him. He wanted to go home. He didn’t want Isabelle to feel whatever his father would do to him.  
  
“I’m going to leave you with two of my lieutenants,” Valentine told him, his voice devoid of any pity. “I hope to find you more willing to have a civil conversation when I return.”  
  
  
  
  
Alec finished off his oatmeal and put the bowl aside. “So. Elliott Dunne. What do you know about him?”  
  
Clary put down her spoon. “He owns an antique bookstore,” she said. “And I guess he’s a warlock, if what Luke said was right. I’ve known him since I was a kid—his store was the only place I was allowed to pick up a free lollipop, so mom must trust him.”  
  
“Jocelyn was sort of weird about that,” Simon said. “Actually, she’s sort of weird about everything.”  
  
“Have you seen Izzy?” Clary asked suddenly. “I haven’t seen her at all.”  
  
“No, I haven’t,” Alec replied, worry mounting at the pit of his stomach. “Weren’t you in her room?”  
  
“Until midnight or so,” Clary said, flushing slightly. “We talked a bit, then I left and she went to bed. I haven’t seen her this morning, and her door’s been closed.”  
  
“I’ll text her,” Alec said, making himself calm down. “If she doesn’t answer in five minutes we’ll go check on her.”  
  
“Okay,” Clary said, looking concerned. “I did knock on her door, but no one answered.”  
  
Normally this wouldn’t be cause for concern, but it was 6 AM and it was very possible she’d been up all night. Or if something had happened to Jonathan—  
  
Alec pushed back his chair, grabbing his phone off the table. “I bet she’s in the training room.”  
  
Clary jumped up after him and Simon, as always, was in her wake. Alec half-walked half-ran to the training room, heart in his throat. If Izzy was hurt, if she was in pain, he had to be there.  
  
His guess about the training room was, unsurprisingly, correct. Izzy was by the main window, pummeling a punching bag so violently it creaked on its hinges, over and over and—  
  
“Izzy!” Alec rushed forward and caught her wrist as she pulled back for another blow. “You’re not wearing wraps—your hand.”  
  
Izzy jerked out of his grip. “Let me go,” she snapped. Her knuckles were raw and bleeding, and just from the tension in her stance Alec knew something was very wrong. “Go away. I’m working.”  
  
“What’s that on your back?” Clary asked, sounding worried. “Are you hurt?”  
  
Izzy turned away quickly but not before Alec caught sight of her _parabatai_ rune, inflamed and red and swollen like an infected wound. “I’m fine. Would you all just go away?”  
  
“Izzy, you’re not fine. Your rune—there’s something wrong with it—“  
  
“Of course there’s something wrong!” Izzy shouted, whirling on Alec with pain and fury in her eyes, and he almost flinched away. “My brother’s being tortured by a fucking monster and I did nothing to stop it, and I have to sit here and continue to do nothing.”   
  
“I understand—“  
  
“No you don’t! There’s nothing wrong with Jace—we don’t even know if he’s in danger. Don’t tell me you understand!”  
  
Alec flinched back, cutting back his retorts like _well then maybe you should have listened to Maryse when she tried to remove your runes_ , but the hurt was there. He told himself that Izzy was in pain, that what she said was true and shouldn’t offend him, but it hurt nonetheless. “I’m going to speak with the Silent Brothers. Maybe they have something that can help.”  
  
Isabelle scowled. “You want to help? Help me hunt down Valentine and get his head on a pike.”  
  
“I don’t think Jonathan would want you to suffer.” Clary spoke up suddenly, her voice quiet but surprisingly firm. “If there’s anything you can do to make the pain better, you should do it.”  
  
Izzy whirled on her and for a second Alec thought she might yell at Clary too. Then her fury died down, just a little. “Fine. I’ll speak with the Brothers. You three go talk to Jocelyn’s warlock friend.”  
  
“Okay.” Alec said before Clary could interject. He knew ‘ _fuck off_ ’ when he heard it, and saw every reason to respect it. “We’ll let you know what happens.”  
  
He grabbed Clary’s arm and pulled her out of the room, trying not to feel the overwhelming heaviness in his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully there will be more to come. I have the plot in place but not always the motivation to write. Actually, very rarely that second one. C'est la vie...
> 
> Thank you for reading! <3


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, I did actually cry writing this chapter. Granted, I definitely cry at everything.
> 
> Have fun, kids!

“Lucian came to see me,” announced a warlock Jace had never seen before, who was wearing the most eye-searing shade of neon pink known to mankind. He’d sauntered past Jocelyn without so much as a hello, and was now looking around the warehouse with mild disdain. “He wanted to know where you were.”  
  
“Did you tell him?” Jocelyn demanded.  
  
“No,” the warlock replied, rather lightly. “To be quite frank, I’ve always thought his affections were misplaced. I’d rather not see the one good pack leader in New York die because of your lot.”  
  
Jace turned to Jocelyn, who was expressionless. “Who the hell is this guy?”  
  
“Magnus Bane, High Warlock of Brooklyn.” Bane gave a flourished bow that packed more sarcasm than Alec without his morning coffee. “And this unpleasant young man must be Jonathan. Charmed.”  
  
Jace groaned. “If we can let this dude in, why not the pizza delivery guy?”  
  
Jocelyn glared at him. “Because _this dude_ cast the wards that are keeping the Circle from finding us.” To Bane, she said, “I haven’t seen any wolves around. I don’t think he’s tracked us here.”  
  
“Wolves? Lucian...you don’t mean Lucian Greymark?”  
  
“The very same,” said Bane, looking bored.  
  
Jace’s stomach twisted. His father had mentioned a Lucian Greymark once, and remarked that the werewolf had betrayed him. There had been a horrible bitterness in his voice, and Jace, still quite young, had hugged his father. It had been the last time before he died.  
  
“He was your father’s _parabatai_.” Jocelyn said flatly. “Your father rejected him when he was bitten by a wolf. He and I came closer to killing Valentine than anyone ever has.”  
  
Jace felt a tug at his gut that felt very much like nausea. Something must have shown on his face, because even the warlock looked a bit sympathetic. _Valentine was not his father. Valentine was not his father. Valentine was not—_  
  
“No one can choose their fathers,” Magnus Bane said. He looked at Jocelyn when he added, “or their mothers.”  
  
“Is that all?” Jocelyn sounded unaffected. “You know what’s at stake, Magnus. No one can know where we are.”  
  
A wave of bitterness crossed Bane’s face. “Yes. I do.” He fiddled with his cufflinks, little blue-rhinestoned skulls. “Well, if that’s all, then I shall be off to enjoy far more pleasant company.”  
  
“Wait,” Jace said, surprising them both. “You called me Jonathan. Am I—is Valentine really my father?”  
  
Bane looked at him strangely for a moment. “All I can tell you is that I found the same covert tracking rune on you that Valentine put on all Circle members. What that means, I can’t say.” He looked between Jace and Jocelyn silently for another moment, then waved a hand  and a pizza box materialized in front of him. Jace took it, trying not to feel as if it were _Sorry-your-dad’s-a-genocidal-maniac_ apology pizza, either from Magnus Bane or the universe at large. “Try not to die of starvation before Valentine does, will you?”  
  
  
  
  
_Isabelle Lightwood. I am most glad you have come to us._  
  
Izzy startled despite herself, glancing around the med center in confusion. Three cloaked brothers stood around the room, one by the Inquisitor’s bedside, cordoned off with what Izzy had to assume were Silent Brother runes. “Not to be rude or anything, but I have absolutely no clue who’s talking to me.”  
  
A static-crackle of amusement and a tall, slender figure glided towards her.  
  
_I am Brother Zachariah. I have heard much about your family’s sorrows. Please, come this way so we may speak._  
  
Izzy followed Zachariah into the gardens, trance-like in her surprise. Silent Brothers famously cared little for the troubles of mortals, and she’d hardly expected one to know of her by name, or entertain her long enough to do anything other than tell her to leave.  
  
_You came to speak to us about your parabatai bond, did you not?_  
  
“How—how did you know that?” Izzy felt her knees weakening and hastily sat down on the garden bench.  
  
Gentle sympathy suffused the air.  
  
_Your pain, and its source, is obvious. I myself once knew that pain. It is bittersweet, is it not? To know the other half of one’s soul draws breath, but in agony._  
  
Izzy swallowed, feeling tears well in her eyes and blinking them away. “Yes. Yes it is.” She drew a shaky breath, let it out. “Is there anything you can do? It...it hurts constantly, it’s distracting me and...I need to hold it together to get my brothers back.”  
  
Zachariah’s rune-scarred face turned downwards.  
  
_I can only heal the pain of the body, not the mind or spirit. And even then, imperfectly. But yes, I will prepare you a poultice that should ease your suffering._  
  
“Thank you,” Izzy said. She’d never spoken to a Silent Brother like this—the only time she’d been to the City of Bones, they’d all been cold. Inhumanly formal. But Zachariah... “Forgive me if I overstep, Brother Zachariah, but I am curious. You speak as if you were once a _parabatai_. Is that true?”  
  
Zachariah’s hooded face turned away and Izzy felt in instantly, a sharp, aching _pain_ in the hollow of her chest, an emptiness that was almost breathtaking.  
  
_Yes,_ he said, and his words were full of that same pain. _Yes, I once was. A lifetime ago. And now, no longer.  
_  
Izzy blinked back tears again, the reverberation of his pain threatening to suffuse her and swallow her up. “I’m...I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—“  
  
_Do not pity the dead, Isabelle Lightwood. Fight for the living. Promise me, you will fight._  
  
“I promise,” Izzy whispered.  
  
_Jonathan_ , she said, in the confines of her own mind. _Jonathan, I promise._  
  
  
  
  
“I still think we should call Luke,” Clary said, folding her arms over her chest. She’d been annoyed with Alec ever since he dragged her out of the training room with Izzy—now had obviously not been the time to leave her alone, when she needed others most.  
  
“He’s a pack leader of New York, not a chaperone service,” Alec replied sharply. Simon sat between them in the back of the taxi, looking very uncomfortable. “I think we can handle talking to a friendly warlock who owns a book store on our own.”  
  
“You know best,” Clary snapped. It was immature of her but she was tired and seeing Isabelle hurting had upset her more deeply than she cared to admit.  
  
“I do.” Alec didn’t even give her the pleasure of a glare.  
  
The rest of the ride to Elliot’s passed in silence, Simon playing the most tense game of Flappy Bird in recorded history. By the time they’d arrived at the store and Simon had paid the driver, Alec was still pretending Clary didn’t exist.  
  
Clary strode past him to the door, grabbing the heavy brass handle and pulling the worn, forest-green door open. Chimes at the top of the door tinkled, announcing her entry. “Elliot?”  
  
A familiar shock of short black hair, thick-rimmed black glasses, and a bright smile appeared from behind a stack of books, and Clary couldn’t help but smile in return.  
  
“Clary!” Elliot exclaimed. In a moment he’d rushed over to hug her, like a long-lost older brother. “I’d heard so much about Jocelyn—I’m so glad you’re safe. And Simon, too. How is the _Kallavela_ going? It’s one of my favorites.”  
  
“It’s going great,” Simon said happily. “Well, it was before everything went crazy.”  
  
The _Kallavela_ was a book of Finnish epic poetry that Clary had won an art competition doing illustrations for, and Simon had made Elliot very happy by gamely agreeing to read it to help her out.  
  
“We have to ask you some questions,” Alec interrupted, ever the killjoy. “Do you know the whereabouts of Jocelyn Fairchild?”  
  
Elliot’s face fell slightly. “Ah. Jocelyn. Unfortunately not.” To Clary, he said, “Your mother was very secretive. She rarely told anyone but the bare minimum she thought they ought to know.”  
  
“What did she tell you?” Clary pressed. “Please, Elliot, we have to find her. Anything could help.”  
  
Elliot’s face darkened, and his shoulders seemed to slump under his soft woolen cardigan. “In the past few months, Jocelyn became...worried about the Mortal Instruments. She never told me anything about them explicitly—I think Dot was more her confidant, a terrible tragedy about her death. But the one thing she did tell me was that should she die you were the only one who could find the Cup.”  
  
“Me?” Clary said. “Elliot, she put a block on my memories—I can’t possibly know where it is.”  
  
“She had the Mortal Cup?” This, from Alec. “Where?”  
  
Elliot looked distressed. “I’m so sorry, Clary, that’s all she would say. She so rarely spoke of her life before you. You’re everything to her. Please remember that.”  
  
“That’s what everyone says,” Clary said, and her own bitterness surprised her. “But she still left me.”  
  
_And took my memories_ , she added silently. That violation, though unspoken, had not been forgotten.  
  
“To keep you safe.” Elliot grasped her hand in a gentle grip. “The forces Valentine can bring to bear are terrible indeed, Clary.”  
  
As if to undercut the tension of the moment, Simon gave a truly magnificent sneeze that shook dust from the rafters. He instantly looked mortified, flushing all the way to the roots of his hair.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Simon said, his eyes and nose very red. “Um, pollen and dust allergies—I’ll just, uh, wait outside.”  
  
He ran for the door, Alec rolling his eyes in Simon’s wake.  
  
“I can give you a few tabs of Claritin,” Elliot said, looking after Simon with concern. “I used to have terrible allergies in my two-hundreds.” He straightened suddenly, as if remembering something. “I have something else for you, too. Dorthea left a few things for you. Nothing special, just a few trinkets I think, but she expressly wanted you to have them if...if anything should happen to her. Stay right here.”  
  
He shuffled through to the back room, leaving Clary and Alec in the front. Alec fiddled with his phone, looking annoyed, worried, and a bit bored. Clary continued to ignore him, scanning the beautiful shelves. Elliot had the most elegant organizational method she’d ever seen—probably developed over the centuries, she realized.  
  
A few minutes later he returned carrying a cardboard box and a little box of allergy medication, as promised. Clary had to smile at that, and thanked him, her heart fluttering a little. She still had barely had time to think about Dot’s death—it hardly seemed real. She expected her to waltz into the kitchen at any moment, declaring how much she hated men on tinder and begging Clary to help her with her wifi problems, or bringing up carrot muffins or teaching Clary how to pick up spiders and carry them to safety.  
  
“Here you go,” Elliot said, depositing the box carefully in her arms. “Like I said, just a few effects.” He blinked rather rapidly as if against tears, and Clary felt a rush of her own sadness. “I can leave you alone, if you like.”  
  
“No, please stay.” Clary opened up the box, pocketing the Claritin. Inside was the picture frame Clary had made Dot in kindergarten from popsicle sticks and pom poms, complete with glitter glue and googly eyes. It was a picture of her, Dot, and Jocelyn, taken less than a year ago at Central Park. They were all smiling, so blissful.  
  
Other items were a little snowglobe with a girl with orange hair that Dot had picked up at a garage sale and named after her, a necklace Dot always wore that Clary complimented often, a pack of tarot cards Jocelyn painted for Dot’s birthday, and what Clary assumed was to be her birthday present, a plush of Appa from _Avatar: The Last Airbender._  
  
“Thank you, Elliot,” Clary said, and put down the box to give him a hug. He was crying a little, and to his credit Alec didn’t roll his eyes. “Are you going to be okay?”  
  
Elliot put his hand on her arm. “Don’t worry about me, Clary. Find the Cup and keep it from Valentine. For all downworlders.”  
  
Clary swallowed, the weight of that request heavy on her shoulders. “I’ll do my best.”  
  
  
  
  
Izzy was sleeping fitfully, Zachariah’s poultice sapping the agony from her rune, when a light knock sounded on her door. She attempted to get up, but felt woozy as if she was having the worst day of her period combined with a severe migraine. “Come in, if you have to.”  
  
The door cracked open and a pair of light blue eyes and a pale face appeared. “Sorry, I can come back later,” said Sebastian Verlac, sounding apologetic. “I’ve scraped the network for data about Jonathan Morgenstern’s movements before and after his abduction, but um, it can wait—“  
  
“No. Come in.” Izzy pulled herself upright in bed, drawing her hair back into a ponytail. She felt like shit, but searching for Jonathan was much more useful than lying around. She gestured to the foot of her mattress. “Sit down. What did you find?”  
  
Sebastian climbed over the mountains of clothes and wrappers on her floor and sat rather hesitantly on the edge of her bed. He was gangly and tall and his dark hair fell in his face much like Jonathan’s did. “I’m not sure if I found anything of consequence,” he said. “But I noticed something about the way he was transported before his GPS was lost. Multiple past testimonies have suggested Valentine has a personal portal ring that he wears at all times—it can transport two, maybe three people at most. That’s probably what he used to portal Jonathan from the Institute to the derelict building where we lose Jonathan’s signal. However, the Fajrhand’s report detected small traces of magical residue, as if a warlock Portal had been opened.”  
  
Izzy frowned, her mind fitting the new information together like puzzle pieces. “And?”  
  
“Well, I wondered why,” Sebastian said. “It suggests that he has a warlock under his control that opened the Portal to from the building to wherever he’s keeping Jonathan now, and that for some reason he couldn’t make the jump with just the ring. There are a few possible explanations. I spoke to an expert in charmed objects and she theorized that if Valentine’s transport ring is enchanted the way she thinks, it probably only works short range—and can’t transport over water. Therefore, that suggests he’s probably holding Jonathan either very far away and didn’t want to take a lot of micro-hops, if you will, or he’s holding him somewhere that’s over water.”  
  
“An island,” Izzy said. “Or a boat.”  
  
“Exactly,” Sebastian replied. “I then cross-referenced known recent activity by Valentine’s men—the attack on Staten Island, for example—with data from mundane Coast Guards, and found a report from a mundane fisherman that his raft had been crushed by an invisible force around the time of the Staten Island attack, just off the coast. I think he’s got a glamored boat, and it’s somewhere off the New York coast.”  
  
Izzy frowned. “It would take a pretty powerful warlock to glamour an entire tanker.”  
  
“My thoughts exactly.” Izzy noticed Sebastian had very long, dark eyelashes, and had a very cute habit of playing nervously with his cardigan sleeves. “I think we should interview the warlock community. See if anyone’s heard anything.”  
  
“Wait a second,” Izzy said. “Why are you bringing this to me? I’m not the one who authorizes missions, right now that’s Hodge and Aline.”  
  
Sebastian grimaced, as if he’d been caught in a lie. “Ah. Well, that’s the problem. Aline already asked for clearance to move on this information, and she was denied by the Council.”  
  
“So you want me to defy Clave orders?” Izzy said. “That’s very noble.”  
  
Sebastian flushed. “Ideally, it would be all three of us. Defying Clave orders.” The last was with a very grudging tone. “I don’t want to do it, but Aline insisted. She would have come to tell you herself, but she had a meeting and wants you on board as soon as possible.”  
  
Izzy grinned. “So she’s holding you hostage to go on an unsanctioned mission. I bet you love that.”  
  
“Not at all,” said Sebastian, very primly. “I prefer to follow rules.”  
  
“So I’ve heard.” Izzy climbed out of bed and made for her closet. She felt unsteady and sick but the helplessness of a few moments before was gone, replaced with firey purpose. “I’m going to get changed, so leave or shut your eyes, if you want. You can fill me in on the plan before Aline gets back. Sound good?”  
  
Sebastian was already scrambling for the door. “Meet me in Aline’s office,” he said hurriedly, then shut the door rather hastily behind him.  
  
  
  
  
“Well, that was helpful,” remarked Alec as they stepped outside the warlock’s bookstore. Clary probably would have stayed there crying with Elliot all night if he hadn’t dragged her away. “You got a photo and some allergy medication.”  
  
Clary glared at him. “Oh yeah, and the information that my mom has the Cup and only I can get it. Totally useless.”  
  
“That _is_ useless,” Alec pointed out. “Because you can’t remember where the hell it is, if you ever knew in the first place.”  
  
Clary looked around, down each side of the sidewalk. “Where’s Simon?”  
  
Alec sighed. “I don’t know. Did he go to Starbucks?”  
  
“Simon hates Starbucks,” Clary said, in a way that suggested he ought to know this somehow. She pulled her phone out of her coat pocket. “He didn’t text me anything. Where could he have gone?”  
  
Alec scowled. “Any comic stores around the area?”  
  
“Simon wouldn’t do that,” Clary said, sounding exasperated. “He’d at least text me first. I _told_ you we should have asked Luke to come along—“  
  
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Alec said. “At least look around five minutes before saying _I told you so_.”  
  
Clary was texting furiously, probably to Simon. Alec tried to push down on his frustration with the mundanes and their stupid problems and failed. Jace, Max, and now _Simon_ were missing, Izzy was out of action, Jonathan would probably be dead soon, and he was stuck with only Clary as company.  
  
“Whatever you do, stay with me,” Alec said. “We can’t split up now. Understand?”  
  
Clary nodded, the cardboard box still in her arms. “Can you track him? With your rune things?”  
  
“Do you have a personal item of his?” Alec mentally pulled up a map, trying to figure out where Simon could have gone. There was grocery store a few blocks down, but even he wasn’t stupid enough to go without saying something—  
  
“Gum wrapper?” Clary asked.  
  
Alec glared at her, thoughts shattered. “A _personal_ item.”  
  
“Maybe back at the Institute?” Clary was beginning to sound panicked. “He’s not replying to any of my texts, he always responds within five minutes maximum, he’s an addict or something—“  
  
“Calm down,” Alec said, in his most dulcet tones, which probably sounded extremely annoyed. “We’ll find him. He probably just wandered off or got lost.”  
  
“I’m going to call him,” said Clary, a bit more calmly. “I’m sure he’ll pick up.”  
  
“Okay.” Alec glared at the setting sun. “But make it quick. I want to get back to the Institute.”  
  
  
  
  
Ragnor Fell was definitely one of the most eccentric warlocks Aline had ever met. Since they’d arrived at his house, he’d offered them each a pair of hand-knitted socks, flustered Sebastian terribly by asking where he’d bought his sweater, and offered them melon tea no less than four times. There were hardly enough bare patches of floor for them to navigate, all the rest taken up by books, knickknacks, or furniture.  
  
“It’s really a lovely restaurant,” he was saying, handing Sebastian a second slice of cake and a cup of tea. “Gorgeous outdoor patio. I really must recommend it, especially in spring. I’ve always loved Romanian teahouses, too. Truly lovely.”  
  
“Mr. Fell. We are investigating any high-profile disappearances in your community.” Aline kept her voice clipped and professional. “Can you tell us anything about that?”  
  
“Disappearances?” Fell blinked at her, wide-eyed. “Oh no, unless you count Miss. Whiskers. She’s my cat,” he added, at her unchanging expression. “Truly terrible. I think she may have been hit by a car.”  
  
“My condolences,” said Sebastian, who loved cats.  
  
“Are there any warlocks you know of who are working for Valentine?” This, from Izzy. Aline bit back a wince, trying not to be frustrated. If Fell was offended by this—  
  
“For Valentine? Dear heavens, no. Save for a few disreputable bumpkins, no one would work for that monster.” Fell peered at them as if they were slightly insane. “Don’t you know he wants to kill us all off?”  
  
“And where could we find these disreputable bumpkins?” Aline asked, not cutting back the smile this phrase brought.  
  
“Oh, well, here and there.” Fell waved a dismissive hand. “Do try the cake, it really did turn out. And it goes together with the melon tea like a dream—“  
  
“We aren’t looking at petty warlocks,” Isabelle broke in. “We’re looking for someone powerful who might be working with him, maybe against their will. Can you think of anyone who might fit that description?”  
  
Aline shot her a warning glare, as did Sebastian. Accusing powerful warlocks of working with their enemies could start all kinds of political disasters, not to mention being very indelicate. Furthermore, news they were looking for a specific profile could  reach the wrong ears.  
  
“Heavens no,” Fell said. “Any warlock would fry that man on sight, if they could. Try the cake,” he said, to Sebastian. Sebastian politely nibbled at it. “I can’t name names, but I’d suggest you try the dens by the docks. Some of them would raise a demon for a dime.”  
  
“Thank you, Mr. Fell,” Aline said, before Isabelle could press further. “If you should think of anything else, please contact us at the Institute.”  
  
“The cake was very good,” Sebastian said politely, as they picked their way to the door.  
  
“That was useless,” Isabelle fumed as they made their way back to the main street. The docks were not so far away—they could easily make it to them and back to the Institute in reasonable time. “He barely answered any of our questions—“  
  
“Nor does he owe us any answers,” Sebastian reminded her. He was using his most pedantic tones, which suggested she, or something else was getting on his nerves. “We’re not on official Clave business, and he knew it. We can’t very well rush in and accuse the warlock community of siding with Valentine.”  
  
“We need _answers_ , not tea cakes and melons!” Isabelle snapped, and Aline noticed the faint beading of sweat at her temples, as if she were ill. “Fine. We went easy on Fell for political reason, but we hit the mercenary warlocks hard. I’ll ask my Seelie contacts if they’ve heard anything—“  
  
“Seelies?” Sebastian repeated incredulously. “You can’t expect to get anything useful from them without a price.”  
  
“The Seelies are good allies and even better informants,” Isabelle shot back, firing up at once. “You brought me along because I know New York. Don’t tell me what I do and don’t know.”  
  
“Quiet, both of you,” Aline said, killing Sebastian’s riposte before he could open his mouth. Even Isabelle looked slightly cowed. “Izzy, you are free to gather information as you see fit and report back to us. The entrance to the Seelie Court is only a block or so away, if you want to pursue those leads now. Sebastian and I can handle the mercenaries.”  
  
Izzy nodded, some professionalism returned, though she still looked a bit feverish. “I’ll speak with my Seelie contacts. Give me a call if you need me.”  
  
  
  
  
  
Jonathan spluttered awake, jerking in his bonds as icy water crashed over his head, drenching him to the bone. The oppressive heat instantly seared at his skin, making it difficult to breathe, as if his lungs were filling with steam. He felt feverish and slightly delirious, his vision slurring at increasingly regular intervals.  
  
Jonathan let his head sag back against the chair Valentine’s lieutenants had bound him to, giving a weak groan as his head throbbed like an open wound. A weak, dingy lightbulb hung above him, flickering and swarmed by flies. They’d hit him with their fists, beat him with anything at hand—wood until it broke, rope until he’d fallen unconscious—interspersed with use of the _agony_ rune. It wasn’t the first time it had been used on him, but he found himself screaming and begging and crying nonetheless. He didn’t know if there was anything to this exercise other than hurting him to find out whether he knew where to find the other Jonathan, or whether his father would allow them to kill him.  
  
A creak of rusty hinges; the Circle soldiers drew up to attention. Jonathan looked up with difficulty. His eyes refused to focus but he could see his father’s dark eyes and familiar face.  
  
“Now, Jonathan,” he said in a firm voice, as if Jonathan had been caught stealing sweets and sent to time out, not tortured for information. “Are you feeling more civil?”  
  
Jonathan opened his mouth to say _fuck you_ , then thought better of it. “Yes,” he gasped, his voice rasping in his dry, raw throat. His father’s mere presence set his heart pounding in his chest, fear freezing his veins.  
  
“Good.” Valentine rounded to face him, watching Jonathan struggle to keep breathing the harsh, hot air impassively. To the two soldiers, he said, “Leave us.”  
  
Jonathan felt a spike of panic as they obeyed, filing out of the room. Valentine drew his stele from his belt and Jonathan tensed, struggling weakly in his _adamas_ chains.  
  
“Relax,” Valentine said, more a command than anything, and Jonathan obeyed. He knelt down and pulled back the bloodied, torn fabric around the wound to Jonathan’s leg, then traced a quick, neat _iratze_ to Jonathan’s skin.  
  
The relief was immediate, sweeping up Jonathan’s body and immediately replaced by other aches and pains. His torso was a mass of bruises, and by the pain in his chest whenever he took a breath his ribs may have been broken, too. Panic thrilled up his spine—if those weren’t healed soon, they could cause catastrophic damage.  
  
“I know you’re not telling me something,” Valentine said, in that calm, collected way. “About Jace. Where is he?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Jonathan gasped out. The back of the chair dug into his neck, painfully. “The Clave isolated me as soon as Max Lightwood went missing.”  
  
“Jonathan.” Valentine’s tone was reprimanding; his dark eyes bored into Jonathan’s own. “Don’t lie to me.”  
  
Jonathan’s eyes stung as if he’d been staring into smoke. “I’m not lying,” he said. “Imogen never believed—never believed you were dead. She arrested me the first chance she got.”  
  
And she had been right. It was impossible—he’d stabbed his father with his own dagger. Too many times for him to still be alive. How could he have survived? The panic was setting in deeper—he had to regain control.  
  
“As compelling as that story is, I know you’re lying.” Valentine looked down at him with a twisted version of sympathy—disgust mixed with pity. “You know I’ll get the truth from you eventually. I always get what I want.”  
  
“You got me,” Jonathan replied, his voice coming out weak and strained. “So I beg to differ.”  
  
A fault showed in Valentine’s mask of calm, but was quickly corrected. “It may take time, but I am persistent.”  
  
“Why wait?” Jonathan spat out the words with effort. “Kill me now and devote the energy to finding the son you always wanted.”  
  
Valentine gave him a look that suggested precisely no remorse. “A tempting offer. But every mistake has its own opportunities.”  
  
Something must have shown on his face because Valentine’s face split with a humorless smile. “Don’t look at me like that,” he said, admonishingly. “Would you rather I play loving father and feed you sugared lies to sweeten a bitter pill? I think we’re far beyond that, Jonathan. You know what you are, and I know what I am. And I am a man who loves his son.” He pulled his stele and began tracing the familiar loops of the a _gony_ rune onto Jonathan’s wrist. “So. Where is Jace Wayland?”  
  
  
  
  
“Why Isabelle. Your presence is always a special delight.”  
  
Izzy kicked off her shoes in deference to Seelie tradition and stepped into Meliorn’s tent, trying not to meditate on what ‘special delight’ could actually mean. “I’m not in the mood, Meliorn. Like, really not in the mood.”  
  
Meliorn raised his eyebrows with an air of hurt and alighted on his sofa. His hair was wound up in an elaborate knot, and he wore a dark shade of lipstick that looked excellent with his perfectly-coiffed stubble. “Then why, pray tell, does the dread sea of your mood drive you towards my humble harbor?”  
  
“I need information, if you can give it to me.”  
  
His expression turned haughty. “Business, then.”  
  
“If business between us bothered you, you never would have made a single transaction.” Isabelle doesn’t hide her smugness. “Surely there is something a humble servant of the Clave can offer an esteemed Knight of the Seelie Court.”  
  
Meliorn glared. “Sarcasm does not suit you. But yes, I suppose I could consider a barter. What is it you seek?”  
  
“We think there’s a powerful warlock working with Valentine. Do you know anything about that?”  
  
“I may.” Meliorn plucked a plum off the table at his feet and cut into it rather delicately with a knife. “What can you offer me in return?”  
  
“It depends on what you want.” Izzy knew she was treading on dangerous ground—Meliorn was clever and could catch anyone off their footing. And she already was off her footing. Also, there was still the unresolved issue of his eyeshadow palette, which she knew he hadn’t forgotten. Seelies had long memories, and Meliorn’s was even longer when it came to beauty products.  
  
“Are you certain Jonathan Morgenstern has Lilith’s blood?”  
  
Izzy held back her surprise with care. She had expected him to ask something she could not possibly answer. She examined all the angles with care, and decided she would answer. The information would surely leak to the downworld soon, anyway. “Yes. He does.”  
  
Meliorn smiled, and bit into the plum. Once he’d swallowed the bite he said, “Dorthea Rollins isn’t dead.”  
  
Izzy didn’t hide her surprise this time. “Are you certain?”  
  
Meliorn gave her a subtle smile. “Quite.”  
  
“And do you know where Valentine is now?”  
  
Meliorn shook his head. “You must think us clever indeed to know his whereabouts. But we would be foolish to hide such a thing from the Clave. Should the Court come across any information about Valentine, we will notify the Institute.”  
  
Izzy raised an eyebrow. “Like you did with Dot?”  
  
“I told you, did I not?”  
  
Izzy didn’t have the energy to quibble with him now. Meliorn must have seen something in her expression because he stood and ushered her gently onto the weavery-adorned couch. “Isabelle, Isabelle,” he said, pushing a stray hair away from her face. “What ails you?”  
  
That was always something she’d loved about him—unlike the frigid world of the Nephilim, Seelies were so free and fluid with casual touch, able to make it feel both intimate and light at once. They spoke volumes with a gentle touch to an arm, but also were masters enough of the language of the body to read what the subject might find offensive or uncomfortable.  
  
“Just...” Izzy shook her head. “Tired.”  
  
Meliorn looked concerned. “Surely you are, with Valentine returned.”  
  
The truth tugged at her but she held back, with effort. As much as she loved Meliorn, she could not trust him, any more than he could trust her. It was an exhausting dance in itself, to constantly hold one another at arm’s length despite wanting nothing more than to pull in close.  
  
So instead of words she pulled in and tucked her head onto his shoulder, feeling his arm curl around hers. Her _parabatai_ rune ached and burned like a living, throbbing thing, like the livid worry whirling constantly through her skull.  
  
“Isabelle,” he began. “I hesitate to bring this to your attention but...I have been given a message for you from the Court.”  
  
Izzy looked up, surprised and intrigued. “For me?”  
  
Meliorn reached up to the thin silver chain around his neck and touched it gently; it unclasped itself from around his neck and curled around his finger, like a snake. Izzy watched it, fascinated. “Audience with the Queen,” he said, letting the silver drip into her outstretched hand. “You need only ring the bell, and you shall be transported to her Court. No shadowhunter in centuries has been granted this.”  
  
Izzy stared at the tiny silver bell in her palm, perplexed. “Why...why me? Why now?”  
  
Meliorn gave a fluid shrug, but his eyes were dark and troubled. “These are dire times, Isabelle. Use this gift with...caution.”  
  
_Caution_ was right. She had heard the stories—not the fables Nephilim told their children to make them hateful and afraid—but the stories Meliorn had told her, of those who had displeased the Queen being made to dance forever, of cloaks made of butterfly wings, of the bone-chilling howls of the Wild Hunt. The Queen was to be feared as Consul Jia Penhallow was—they were women at the head of political machines, machines that would crush and grind to dust anyone who got in their ways.  
  
And yet that silver bell gleamed, the temptation of an easy answer, deceptively simple.  
  
“My thanks to the Queen,” Izzy said, tucking the bell into her belt. The thought of Jia had reminded her of Aline and Sebastian, out looking for their mysterious warlock—reminded her of why she was here. To save her brothers, not seek comfort. She smiled Meliorn’s way, forcing some of her old charm into it. “And my thanks to you.”  
  
Meliorn gave her a strange, guarded smile in return. “You are, of course, welcome here in my own little realm. Though, I suspect, the dread tides of your temper now drive you elsewhere.”  
  
Izzy gave him a look, standing up and instantly relieved not to feel too dizzy. “Careful, or my _dread tides_ may drive my palm to your face.”  
  
Meliorn was unrepentant, stretching out gracefully on the couch. “I welcome it freely to my humble harbor.”  
  
She shook her head. “Kinky bastard.”  
  
“I never denied it.”

 

 

  
“It's offensive!” Ragnor ranted. “A decade spent teaching at their academy, Lilith only knows how many professional slights and insults—and they fall for the act as if I'm some sort of kooky mundane theatre teacher!”  
  
Magnus watched his oldest friend pace agitatedly about the apartment in mild amusement. “That is rather the point of the act, was it not? And in their defense, this place looks like the set of _Hoarding Housewives of America_. When was the last time you actually touched these papers?”  
  
“Yes, but I didn't expect them to actually fall for it,” Ragnor said, a bit more calm but also sounding deeply peeved. “Nevertheless, that wasn't why I called you here. It's about Dorthea.”  
  
Magnus looked away, a dull ache resounding in his chest. “Yes, I heard. Lucian told me.”  
  
Ragnor shook his head impatiently. “Think, Magnus. Dorthea, killed by a couple of wet-behind-the-ears shadowhunters? She outfoxed droves of them in Spain during the Inquisition.”  
  
“She was protecting Jocelyn,” Magnus said. As much as he loved Ragnor, he had no time or heart for false hopes. “You know as well as I do what was at stake. She would have done anything to keep the Instruments out of Valentine's hands. And she cared for Jocelyn and her daughter.”  
  
Ragnor shook his head impatiently. “This isn't some half-baked theory of grief,” he said quickly. “When they were here, the shadowhunters asked if I knew of a powerful warlock that could be working with Valentine against their will, and about any recent disappearances among us. They were clearly not interested in the lesser warlocks in the area—whatever disturbance they're investigating must be powerful indeed. At present, I can think only of a few who would match that description: you and I, Catarina, Tessa, Lorenzo, and perhaps a handful of others like Elliot or Aboud, if we're being generous—and Dot. We only ever had the shadowhunters' word she was dead, and what do they know, presuming they're even being forthright? If Valentine has her, we owe it to her to at least look—”  
  
“Ragnor,” Magnus interrupted. “You know how much Dot meant to me. But you sound half-mad. The Clave falsely reporting her death so Valentine can force her to do his bidding? Tessa is so close to them—she would have heard something.”  
  
“I don’t mean to doubt Tessa,” Ragnor said. “But the Nephilim? Magnus, you know as well as I that even when they mean well they can’t be trusted. We...we owe it to her, Magnus. To at least look. To try.”  
  
Magnus shook his head, stifling a deep, heavy sigh. Ragnor had never been one to take loss lightly—not like Camille. Not like _him_. If a wild goose chase was what Ragnor needed to come to terms with another senseless death, Magnus would be heartless to deny it to him. “Fine, I’ll join you on your pointless children’s crusade. Shall we drag Catarina into this, or is this a special pleasure for me alone?”  
  
Ragnor brightened, horns tipping upwards. “I knew you’d come around. Yes, yes, let’s find Catarina at once. I believe she’s at the hospital. Shall you draw the portal, or shall I—?”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
_Alec, if you’re reading this, I just want you to know I’m sorry._  
  
Jace scribbled that out, faintly embarrassed. He’d been trying to write the letter for the past few hours, though he’d not done much more than waste ink and generally make himself more miserable. But it was the only way he could think of to draw out the knot of jumbled thoughts and fragments of feeling that had accumulated in his mind.  
  
It was dark in the warehouse, and cold, but Jocelyn had allowed him a witchlight and actually trusted him enough to sleep, or at least pretend to. He knew she slept with a knife under the knapsack that served as a pillow, but he was trying not to think about it.  
  
_I don’t know what’s going on,_ he began again. He’d started out in the neat cursive his father had taught him, but that had only made him think of the cabin in Brocalind Forest, of his father’s impatient hands and quick temper. _Valentine Morgenstern. Valentine Morgenstern._ The name had flowed through his mind so many times it had carved out a canyon in his thoughts. Michael Wayland’s face seemed like a strange mask, swam like a caricature in his mind’s eye.  
  
_There are things I never told you,_ he continued. The words came out awkwardly, but were starting to flow more than before, not the stop and start of before. _I’m not sure why. You’re my brother, after all. I guess I never had the words for it, or was afraid for you to know. Or afraid to think about it myself. I don’t know the real reason, if there even is one._  
  
_I think I have demon blood._  
  
There. The words swam before him, black and inky in his own hand. Bold. Final.  
  
_I’m sure you have a lot of questions. I do too, and not many answers. If it scares you—well, I get that. It scares me too. I’m scared it makes me some kind of monster, that I’ve always been without ever noticing, that I’ve tricked you into thinking I’m something I’m not. That when you asked me to be your parabatai, that it was a mistake._  
  
Jace’s vision blurred slightly; he wiped angrily at his eyes with his sleeve and kept writing.  
  
_I’ve been thinking about things a lot, and there’s a lot of things I wish I could go back and do differently. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, you’re always the one who said I was an asshole._  
  
Jace took a deep breath, eyes roving over the words in his own hand. Now that he’d said them on paper, they seemed awful, and real.  
  
_I never talked to you a lot about my father, either. I know you wondered. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust you, Alec. Don’t think that. I just...there things I couldn’t talk about, not without burdening you and Izzy, and I never wanted that. But it turns out it wouldn’t have done any good if I had, because everything I thought I knew about him seems to be a lie, anyway._  
  
_But I’ll tell you everything I think I know. Better to come clean now than never, I guess._  
  
_Valentine Morgenstern is my father. He pretended to be Michael Wayland—I don’t know why, but he did, and he brought me up as Michael Wayland’s son. Then he died, or faked his death, it seems. He experimented on me before I was born, and made me whatever I am._  
  
_This doesn’t change anything for me, Alec. I’m still the Jace that loves you forever, and will always love you and Izzy forever. Blood can’t change that. But I’ll understand if you can no longer love me back._  
  
It was dramatic, Jace knew. But the words were an outlet for the uncontrollable whirlwind of guilt and fear and hate for the man who had raised him, the man who had done nothing but lie to him. Made him into a monster, in more way than one. The guilt and fear that he had used the Lightwoods, manipulated them, fooled them and himself into thinking he could love them.  
  
_How can you know you’re capable of love?_  
  
The words stared back at him on the page, inky and unknowable. It seemed like an ancient paradox, an old riddle, something the sphinx might ask of a wary traveler. It was certainly not something he, a soldier raised to do nothing but kill sitting in a darkening warehouse, could possibly answer.  
  
The world had seemed so impossibly simple just a few weeks ago, the future brazen and fearless, and now Jace found himself questioning the most basic things. _Who am I really? What am I capable of? What do I really want?_ Questions he’d never thought to ask, let alone answer. He'd been Jace Wayland, son of a hero, and that had been good enough for him. That had been simple, had smoothed the edges of memories sharp like broken glass. He'd loved his father. His father had loved him.

Simple.  
  
Jace looked to Jocelyn, resting with her dagger in hand. She hand answers to those questions. He was Jonathan Christopher Morgenstern, monster in human form, capable of deep cruelty and lacking any kind of human love.  
  
But Jace was not her monster, nor even his father’s: he was his own. So, it seemed, he had to come up with his own answers. _Who am I really? What am I capable of? What do I really want?_

A bewildering array of choices, of futures, of consequence, laid out before him like an unreadable spider's web. Some choices simple, others impossible.

One thing he knew for sure: he was not Jace Wayland. And Jace Wayland was not simple.  
  
  
  
  
“—and we’ve still no reliable leads on the whereabouts of Jonathan Morgenstern, nor Jocelyn Fairchild and Jace Herondale,” Sebastian finished, doing his best to keep his eyes on the screen in front of him and not on his fingers in his lap. He wished deeply Aline was here—she dealt with the Clave’s envoys so much better than he ever did. “But we’re pursuing all available avenues and will update the Council at every turn.”  
  
Victor Aldertree nodded slowly, eyebrows raising. “Mmm,” he said, and his hands steepled in front of him. The urge to pick at his sleeves doubled tenfold—Sebastian couldn’t tell if that was the _good_ “mm” or the _bad_ “mm.” “So I suppose your and Ms. Penhallow’s little unsanctioned jaunt into warlock territory was...not worth my time?”  
  
Fuck. Definitely the bad “mm.” “Um—“  
  
“Don’t.” All pretense had faded from Aldertree’s expression, replaced by cold, hard displeasure. “You know the Consul’s orders. You know the Inquisitor’s orders. In the future, I suggest you remember that before you attempt to lie to me.”  
  
“Yes, of course, I’m sorry, I—“  
  
“Victor.”  
  
Sebastian turned; Aline had entered the office, and by the Angel, he’d never been so happy to see her. She looked quite angry, too, though he wasn’t sure if it was on his behalf or in general.  
  
Aldertree’s expression turned to something near annoyance. “Ms. Penhallow. I was just instructing your co-commander here that—“  
  
“You were threatening, actually, and he’s my cousin.” Aline gestured for Sebastian to budge and he did, rolling his chair aside so that she could face the tablet’s camera directly. “I don’t care if my mother ordered you to call and upbraid us for disobedience, but you can tell her that her orders were bullshit and that if she’s going to let me be in charge, she should let me follow my leads and instincts. Are you writing this down?”  
  
Aldertree’s eyebrows raised. “Should I be?”  
  
Aline’s expression turned haughty. “I should think so.”  
  
Sebastian pushed back on the impulse to hold his fingers over his eyes and watched as Aldertree drew out a pad of paper and a pen with a dramatic, put-upon flourish.  
  
“Anyway,” Aline said calmly, once he had indicated he was ready. “Please tell the Consul that she gave me this position, and therefore if she wants me to succeed she will let me make decisions of my own—within reason, of course. I respect that it is both an opportunity and a responsibility, and will do my utmost to uphold the honor of the Penhallow name. Did you get that?”  
  
Victor gave her an almost amused smile. “Yes, I believe I did.”  
  
“Good. Then tell her if she tries to marry me off to that limpid Wintermark boy one more time, I will retreat to Antarctica and never return.”  
  
Aldertree looked at her. She stared at him back. “Very well,” he said, with a sort of resignation that suggested he thought she’d absolutely lost her wits—something that Sebastian, incidentally, was also thinking. “I shall be sure to pass on those words to the Consul as your own.”  
  
“Good.” Aline lifted her chin. “Is there anything you’d like to add to my cousin or I?”  
  
Aldertree regarded her coolly—not coldly, but without any real malice, either. “Just to pass on the Inquisitor’s message that time is of the essence in finding Jonathan Morgenstern.”  
  
Sebastian could have imagined it, but he thought he saw Aline’s expression falter, just for a moment. But then she was back, giving Aldertree a cool smile. “Noted. Thank you for your time.”  
  
“Likewise.” And with that, the call cut short.  
  
Very slowly, Sebastian turned to Aline in horror. She looked at him back, expectant, then sighed. “Look, it was either that or deal with her stepping on our toes at every turn. Best to force the issue now. What’s she going to do, take us back to Idris? I’d rather that than failing here because she refuses to trust my instincts.”  
  
“I see what you mean,” said Sebastian weakly. “I would have just...framed it more, um...diplomatically.”  
  
Aline gave a wry smile. “I’m sure Aldertree will do that for me. He didn’t get away with being Imogen’s right hand man for so many years for no reason. Though, I do hope he keeps in the bit about Samuel Wintermark being ‘limpid.’”  
  
Sebastian made a noise of assent that he also would have defined as ‘limpid.’ “Well, um, thank you for rescuing me.”  
  
Aline gave him a fond look. “You can’t let people like Victor intimidate you. I mean, unless he’s aiming at you with a crossbow. Or challenging you to hand-to-hand combat. I hear he’s quite the expert.”  
  
“You’re not actually selling your ‘don’t be afraid’ thing, you know,” Sebastian said amicably.  
  
“I’ll drag you out of your shell eventually,” Aline said, half a promise, half a threat. “Now, our warlock intel. Where were we?”  
  
  
  
  
“So, is there a plan? Or did you two drag me into something without having thought about it. Again,” Catarina added, as Ragnor opened his mouth to protest. “Don’t think I haven’t forgotten about that little scuffle in 1948.”  
  
“This is all Ragnor,” Magnus said, raising a hand to summon the tray of cocktails. “I’m just here for moral support. Also, free alcohol.”  
  
Ragnor gave them both withering glares. “Yes, there is a plan, and I’ve officially termed it, ‘Operation: Save Dot.’”  
  
“Creative,” Catarina commented, declining the proffered cocktail. “Did you think of that  yourself?”  
  
“Yes, Catarina, I did, and no, I’m not taking suggestions to change it. That includes you,” he added, to Chairman Meow, who had taken to using him as an impromptu scratching post. “Magnus, I don’t know why you tolerate this maudlin thing.”  
  
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Ragnor, I wouldn’t call you maudlin.” Magnus took a sip of his cocktail. “All right. You have us here. Wow us with your brilliant plans.”  
  
“So, phase one of the plan,” Ragnor said. “We call on our shadowhunter sources, see if they’ve heard anything. That definitely includes Tessa—who knows what she can dig up for us. Then, we regroup and share what we’ve learned.”  
  
Catarina nodded. She had her feet up on Magnus’ coffee table, which normally would annoy him, but it was her so it didn’t. “Seems reasonable. What’s phase two?”  
  
“Well, it largely depends on the outcomes of phase one,” Ragnor said. “If we pick up any interesting leads, we follow those.”  
  
“And if not?” Catarina prompted.  
  
“Ah. Well, then, erm.” Ragnor scratched guiltily at his forehead. “I’m not actually sure.”  
  
She sighed. “So the plan is, ask shadowhunters. When your whole reason for bringing us here and not believing Dot is dead is because we can’t trust shadowhunters.”  
  
“Yes, well, it sounds bad if you put it that way,” Ragnor said, sounding wounded. “I prefer to think of it as...plumbing our wells. Seeing if there are any inconsistencies. If anyone blabs.”  
  
“This isn’t the 1950s, Ragnor, no one says ‘blabs’ to say ‘confess.’ ”  
  
“Graceful of you to assume anyone says ‘plumbing our wells’ in a non-sexual context, either.”  
  
“You know what I mean!” Ragnor lifted a hand and a teacup floated gracefully to meet it. “Anyway, I was thinking of asking my old Academy contacts, but it turns out they’re all dead or deposed, which is just typical of mortals. How about you two?”  
  
Catarina shrugged. “I stopped talking with the Nephilim ages ago. You know that.”  
  
Ragnor looked to Magnus. “Magnus?”  
  
Magnus sighed. He was, of course, the one with the most living shadowhunter contacts, as the High Warlock of Brooklyn. So of course the responsibility fell to him to interrogate them. Subtly. “Yes, I do know the Nephilim. Some of them, anyway. The ones who don’t stab on sight. So, not many.”  
  
“But you will ask?” Ragnor prompted. “Dorthea’s life could hang in the balance, Magnus.”  
  
Magnus sighed. “Fine, yes, I will ask my Clave contacts whether anything further has been heard about Dorthea. And no, Ragnor, you may not hug me—I said may _not_ hug me—oh, not you too, Chairman Meow.”  
  
“I knew I could rely on you,” Ragnor beamed, once he’d let go. Chairman Meow rested a single paw delicately on Magnus’ chest, glaring up at him with love. “Now, for lunch. I made some more of my famous melon cake, you really must try it...”  
  
  
  
  
“He’s not picking up,” Clary was saying in a watery voice. She looked dangerously, perilously close to crying, and Alec knew if he let that happen, Isabelle would have his guts for garters. “He just went outside for his allergies, what could have happened? I shouldn’t have—oh my god this is all my fault. What if—what _they_ have him, the circle or whatever? What would they even want with him, he hasn’t even had a boyfriend yet—“  
  
“Please talk slower,” Alec said, a bit weakly. It was stressing him out. “Okay, how about this. We’ll get something of...your friend’s....to track him with. I’m sure he hasn’t gone far.”  
  
Alec was not sure of this. In fact, he wouldn’t have been surprised if the mundane had gotten himself hit by a car.  
  
“Okay,” said Clary. Now that she was calming down, she was starting to glare at him again, which he did not appreciate. Still, it was better than the crying. “Okay, I’ll keep texting him too. Should we go back to Eliot’s? Maybe he’s still there or he lost his phone—“  
  
“Tracking is faster,” Alec assured her, mostly out of a complete lack of desire to go anywhere near downworld territory alone, with no one but a mundane for company, in search of another missing mundane. “I’ll go find Izzy and we can brief Aline.”  
  
Clary nodded, the mention of Izzy clearly comforting to her in some capacity. She was cradling the cardboard box of warlock trinkets in her arms like it held a newborn child. “Okay. I’ll go with you.”  
  
Alec sighed, watching Raj and Karen arm-wrestle with some annoyance. “If you must.”  
  
They found Izzy with Aline and Sebastian, looking a lot better than she had that morning and looking very amused.  
  
“—and then Sebastian seduced the mercenary warlock and made him spill all his secrets,” Aline was saying, almost smugly. “You really missed out. Did my baby cousin seduce anyone in the Seelie Realm? I don’t think so.”  
  
“I did not _seduce_ anyone, I was _groped_ ,” Sebastian corrected, with affronted dignity. “And really, Aline, I’m five years older than you.”  
  
“The two tend to go together,” Izzy said, not without sympathy. “Though you could always try lopping off a finger or two if they get handsy.”  
  
Sebastian stared at her without comprehension. Alec was starting to get a feeling he was only strictly comfortable with things that happened on a computer screen.  
  
“Izzy,” Clary said, barging into the conversation with her characteristic total disregard for respect or protocol. “We went to visit Eliot. Simon’s gone, he’s missing, we have to go find him, he’s not answering his phone and that never happens, he brought his battery pack with him too so there’s no way he ran out of battery—“  
  
“Woah, woah, woah, slow down,” Izzy said, standing up to go to Clary’s side. “One thing at a time. Eliot, the warlock, what did he say?”  
  
“He gave her a bunch of stuff and they cried,” Alec summarized.  
  
Clary glared at him. “He gave me some of Dot’s things she wanted me to have, and said my mom had really only confided in her about the Cup. He said I’m the only one who can get the Cup.”  
  
Izzy frowned. “Your mom...hid the Cup in a place only you can find?”  
  
Clary shook her head, clearly overwhelmed. “He didn’t say how, that’s all he knew. Izzy, but then we went outside and Simon was gone. We couldn’t find him anywhere. He’s not answering his phone, this isn’t like him.”  
  
“Okay, let’s get something of his and we’ll track him. He can’t have gone far.” Izzy started off towards the spare room where Clary and Simon had been sleeping. “Did he say anything before he left? Give any indication of where he was going?”  
  
“He just went outside because the bookstore was setting off his allergies,” Clary said miserably, trailing after her through the halls, leaving Aline and Sebastian to debate what qualified as seduction. “He wouldn’t wander off without us, his mom would kill us. She’s a lawyer and everything. Gets really scary when she’s worried.”  
  
Before Izzy could comment on this no-doubt fascinating piece of information, Clary’s phone rang. She snatched it up and answered with impressive speed, holding it up to her ear. “Simon? Simon, is that you?”  
  
Alec strained his ears and could just make out a woman’s voice on the other end of the call.  
  
“ _Clary Fray,_ ” the voice said. “ _So nice to finally  put a voice to a face. Well, I won’t dither. I have your little mundane friend Simon Lewis here, and he’s absolutely dying to hear from you._ ”  
  
“Simon?” Clary gasped. “Who are you—why do you want him, he’s just a—he’s just a student—“  
  
“ _I have no interest in babysitting your little friend,_ ” the voice replied. “ _I want the Mortal Cup, and I have reason to believe you can deliver it to me. Bring it to the Hotel DuMort by tomorrow evening at midnight, or little Simon here will be dying in a somewhat less metaphorical sense._ ”  
  
“The Mortal Cup for a _mundane_?” Alec said, once Clary had hung up and was staring at the dark screen, pale as a sheet. “She’s got to be kidding.”  
  
Izzy gave him a look and he had to admit in retrospect he probably could have found a better way to phrase that. “Clary, Clary it’s okay. We’ll figure something out. We won’t let anything happen to Simon, okay?”  
  
“Okay,” Clary said, though her voice wobbled. “Okay. What do we do?”  
  
Izzy and Alec exchanged a wordless glance. _Good fucking question._ “Well, first off, we don’t tell the Clave. They get wind of this and they’ll set the entire DuMort on fire, taking everyone and probably your friend Simon with it. That goes for Aline and Sebastian, too,” she said firmly, with a glance Alec’s way.  
  
Clary nodded. “And then what?”  
  
 “Then, we find a way to fix this mess,” Alec cut in. “Preferably without breaking the Accords or the Law.”  
  
“See?” Izzy beamed. “Easy.”  
  
  
  
  
Max had always thought that shadowhunters didn’t feel fear.  
  
He wasn’t sure where the belief came from. Maybe from his lessons, drilled into him at a level so basic it was like _Dura lex sed lex_ , the law is harsh but it is the law. Maybe from watching his siblings, Jace and Izzy and Alec and maybe even Jonathan train and fight and kill demons like it was effortless as breathing. Maybe it had even just been wishful thinking.  
  
Either way, he knew better now. Shadowhunters felt fear, felt it every little bit as mundanes did. Everything he told himself— _don’t cry, be strong, think of your family_ —all of that was gone. Max had cried. He wasn’t strong. And thinking of his family only filled him with dread.  
  
At first he’d pretended. Held his chin up high, pretended he wasn’t afraid, that his heart didn’t quake whenever the adults walked by, casting their dark shadows over his head. He told himself he had to be proud and strong like Izzy, determined like Alec, powerful and unexpected as Jace. He was a Lightwood. It was his duty by birth.  
  
But the truth of it was: he wasn’t his siblings. He was just Max. And Max was really, really scared.  
  
After a while, he stopped pretending. He expected the adults to notice, mock him for it. Call him a scared little kid, a spineless shadowhunter. But they didn’t. In fact, they didn’t seem to notice his fear. Didn’t care. To them, he wasn’t a person, he was a child, a hostage, a sack of bones to be hauled around at their master’s orders.  
  
So when Valentine Morgenstern came to his little cell and held out a hand and told Max to come with him, he didn’t resist like he should have. Didn’t try to reach for the dagger on Valentine’s belt, didn’t even pretend to struggle or protest that he could walk on his own. Just swallowed his revulsion, took the hand, and followed. His heart was trembling madly in his chest; he watched the dark rusted halls and heavy, whirring machinery pass, heard the distant pounding of boots on metal grates. It was hot as hell, making Max sweat into his training clothes.  
  
Valentine drew to a halt and Max did too. Two soldiers—Circle soldiers—opened a door, and Max was pushed through.  
  
His first impression was the smell of blood, heavy and thick on the air. For a second Max had to wonder if Valentine was going to kill him. But then Valentine said, “Jonathan. I brought you company.”  
  
  
  
  
With effort, Jonathan opened his eyes.  
  
Immediately he wished he hadn’t. The dim light stabbed at his eyes, making the tender parts of his skull throb like a living thing.  
  
_“Jonathan!”_  
  
Max’s voice. Momentary hope buoyed in Jonathan’s aching chest, quickly replaced by fear. Valentine was using this, using Max, dangling him out as bait. He was going to die here, and so was Max.  
  
A small hand grabbed his shoulder, shaking it. “Jonthan, Jonathan, it’s me, Max. Can you hear me?”  
  
Jonathan looked up. It _was_ Max, familiar wide brown eyes and a mop of brown hair and an abundance of freckles. He looked like the photos of Robert he’d seen when Robert was young. He could feel his eyes welling with tears, hot and painful. “Max,” he said, and his voice came out hardly a whisper over his raw, parched throat. He reached up, feeling the heavy weakness in his own limbs, felt Max’s warm little hand find his. “You’re all right.”  
  
Over Max’s shoulder he could see his father, watching. Jonathan’s gut tightened. “Max...” He swallowed, painfully. He knew how Max loved his heroics. “Max, don’t...just do as he says.”  
  
“Isn’t this a touching family reunion,” Valentine said, without a trace of amusement. He took his stele off his belt and held it out to Max. “Why don’t you give him an _iratze_.”  
  
Max took the stele with shaking hands and applied a careful, shaky _iratze_ to Jonathan’s arm. It wasn’t perfect, but relief swept through his body and Jonathan could feel some of his muscles relaxing. Max stared at the stele, as if contemplating what he could do with it, but he was too small and Jonathan was too weak to do anything but get themselves killed.  
  
Valentine held out a hand and Max returned the stele to him, uncharacteristically meek. Anger burned in Jonathan’s chest—Valentine was torturing Max, too, playing is abominable mind games against a young, impressionable child. Max was not like what Jonathan was at his age, not forged and hardened prematurely into a brittle weapon of war.  
  
“Please don’t hurt him,” Max said, in the small, terrified tones of a child who knew his pleas would not be heeded. “Please.”  
  
Valentine made a brusque gesture and one of the soldiers behind him stepped forward and grabbed Max by the arms, dragging him back. Tears were welling in Max’s eyes, but he did not struggle. He had learned by now that it was fruitless.  
  
Valentine knelt down next to Jonathan, stele still in hand. Jonathan’s breathing had gone so shallow, so much so he could feel the oxygen burn in his chest and a growing light-headedness. He could not breathe. He was afraid to take his eyes off his father, transfixed on the threat.  
  
“I told the Lightwoods I always correct my mistakes,” he said, and still, even now, Jonathan felt his practiced eye roving over him, evaluating how well he’d taken his punishment. Old habits, Jonathan thought with a desperate, aching bitterness, died hard. “And now, it seems, I will correct theirs, too.”  
  
In an instant Jonathan was trapped against the metal grate, bound hands and wrists trapped beneath him. Valentine’s knee dug into the small of his back, crushing him. He tried to force himself free but his father’s grip was too strong.  
  
And then he felt it. The tip of the stele, trailing wildfire over his skin, over his shoulderblade, over his—  
  
_Isabelle._  
  
His chest felt like an empty cavern, as if the very fibers of his muscle were tearing, ripping him in half. Pain tore up his spine and he screamed and writhed and kept screaming, as if the parabatai rune his father’s stele was burning off his skin was the still-beating heart being torn from his chest.  
  
_I love you, Jonathan, and I will always believe in you, and you will always be my parabatai. I don’t give a damn about your blood, I know you and you’re not like Valentine, and there’s nothing evil about you. Don’t believe you are._  
  
“ _No_ ,” Jonathan gasped. He could hardly breathe. “No, please, _no_ —“  
  
Valentine paused. Jonathan could have sworn he paused. Hesitated. One last, foolish glint of hope. Maybe he would have mercy. He had to. He _had_ to.  
  
The stele touched his skin, one last time, and after the searing pain of the burn faded, Jonathan felt nothing.  
  
It was like suddenly not being able to hear, or see. The soft ringing in your ears when there’s nothing else to hear, the mind’s endless, shrill loop to fill the void. Everything was numb; distantly Jonathan could feel his own harsh, wracking sobs, the way his body curled protectively on itself like an infant’s. And of course the pain, unbearable, though it felt more like an afterthought.  
  
Gone. She was gone. He was alone, alone with his father and his thoughts.  
  
“Izzy,” Jonathan said, and his voice broke on her name. “ _Izzy_.”  
  
She was gone.  
  
  
  
  
Isabelle was in the garden when she felt it.  
  
At first, it felt like the first stages of a heart attack. A crushing pressure on her chest, a tingling in her fingertips. Then pain, sharp, like an axe through her back. She’d stumbled over, grabbing at her chest, terrified at her shortness of breath.  
  
Then she _felt_ it, the sensation of falling. Like she was a puppet animated by strings that had been cut. Tumbling forward, though not actually falling. The pain in her chest opening up, widening, sucking everything in. All her thoughts, worries, fears, her concern for Clary, her worry for Simon, her anger at Valentine and the universe in general—vanished.  
  
This was no physical malady, no simple mundane illness. This was the fear that had crept, banished at the edges of her mind expanding like a cavernous maw, becoming reality. And now that fear, so carefully suppressed and pushed down until she could scarcely think about it without it exploding forth—it was everything.  
  
_Jonathan_.  
  
She couldn’t feel him. It was a sick, panicky feeling, like feeling for a phantom limb and finding it amputated. She felt the urge to scream that it was _wrong_ , that he was _there_ , but he wasn’t. There was no arguing with it, no fighting it—all her training and all her skills couldn’t defeat _gone_.  
  
She thought of the day they’d been bonded, how pale and thin and nervous and angry he was. How she’d said the words with him, not really hearing them, just seeing his black eyes and holding his warm hand in hers and saying in her heart, _Forever_.  
  
But that was not the vow she’d made. The vow she had made cared nothing of what she said in her heart.  
  
Her vow said, _if augt but death part thee and me_.  
  
Jonathan was dead. She’d done nothing to stop it. She couldn’t even leap into the grave after him, fulfill the other part of that vow— _where thou diest I will die, and there I will be buried._  
  
She thought of her promise to Brother Zachariah. Fight for the living. She’d meant Jonathan when she took that vow, but again, what she’d said in her heart was not what she’d promised. Too much depended on her now, to much weight hung on her shoulders for her to collapse.  
  
But, by the Angel, that was all she wanted to do.  
  
So she cried. She cried for Jonathan, both the angry little boy she’d seen in the foyer and the loyal, kind man he’d become. She cried for all the time they’d spent together, all the time they couldn’t. She cried for the helplessness she’d felt as the Inquisitor led him away, as he’d been taken for her, and she cried for the hate that had sent him to his death, for the hate that clenched uncontrollably in her chest when she thought of the man who’d killed him. She cried for the rune that she knew if she looked would have faded from her back, right over her heart.  
  
She cried until she could cry no more.  
  
Strangely, for a moment, the emptiness no longer felt like a void. It felt like emptiness.  
  
“ _Ave atque vale,_ ” she whispered. The traditional rite of burial. Nothing more.

In her heart, she spoke the whole line, from Catullus: _And forever, brother, hail and farewell._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ookay well! Needless to say a lot happens in the next few chapters. Please bear with me as I write them, and as always thank you for your patience and your kind words, it really helps me keep going.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay friends this one's a doozy, and by "doozy" i mean "I had no idea what was going on at even a single point while writing" but hey! it's 20k

“And this is my room,” Izzy said, ushering her new friend inside. “You’re actually the first boy I’ve let come in here, so don’t let Alec and Jace start thinking they can, too, because they can’t.”  
  
Jonathan looked around the room with his dark eyes, observing her closet, her bed, her desk full of accessories of her studies and her brand-new makeup bag. Hesitantly, he reached out a pale, thin hand and touched a feathery pink boa she’d wrapped around her four-poster. He looked up at her in surprise, and she could have sworn she saw him smile, just for a second. “It’s pink.”  
  
Izzy nodded archly, sitting down on the bed and touching the black sequined coverlet. “The truth of it is, Jace and Alec won’t come in here because Jace says it has cooties. Alec tells him it’s stupid and there’s no such thing as cooties, but he’s only saying that because he’s the eldest and is supposed to be so much better than the rest of us. He does everything Jace does, anyway.”  
  
At the mention of Jace, or maybe cooties, Jonathan’s face scrunched up into an expression of dislike. Tentatively, he sat down on the opposite side of the bed, running a hand experimentally over the sequins. “What’s a cootie?”  
  
Izzy frowned. “I don’t really know. Jace got the concept from Raj, who’s a stupid idiot. My hypothesis was that it’s some kind of bacteria or viroid, but there’s not enough evidence to tell.” She arched an eyebrow. “Do you study biology?”  
  
Jonathan looked up. Even his face was thin—he really needed to put on some muscle, Izzy thought. “A little.”  
  
“It’s my favorite subject,” she told him. “Other than field studies, which of course is everyone’s favorite. Have you ever killed anyone?”  
  
Jonathan’s expression flickered, and Izzy noticed one of his hands fisted around a handful of her coverlet. “No.”  
  
“I haven’t either,” Izzy assured him. “Though I’m hoping to by the time I’m your age. I’m going to be the best shadowhunter ever to live.”  
  
Jonathan did not scoff or laugh like all the adults did, or give her that sickening patronizing smile and say, _of course you will, sweetie_. Even Jace and Alec thought it was kind of funny, though they both had enough good sense not to contradict her.  
  
He said, “Okay.”  
  
“There are a few problems of course,” Izzy said, hopping off the bed and rounding it to his side. “I’ll need a _parabatai_ , but there’s no girls at the Institute, so I may not find one in time. And Jace and Alec will probably be _parabatai_ , so I can’t even fall back on one of them, not that I’d want to. They’re both dumb boys. No offense,” she added quickly.  
  
One corner of Jonathan’s lips quirked upwards. “None taken.”  
  
Izzy crossed her arms over her chest. “You don’t talk much.”  
  
Jonathan shook his head. “Not really.”  
  
“I can talk for both of us, then,” she said. “Mr. Starkweather says I’m bossy, but I prefer to think of myself as commanding. Like Achilles. You’ve read the Iliad, right?”  
  
Jonathan nodded. “It’s one of my favorites.”  
  
“Mine, too. I always thought Achilles and Patroclus were like _parabatai_ ,” she told him. “When I get a _parabatai_ , I want to be like them. Sacking Troy together and all that. I’m Achilles, of course,” she added, just in case he wasn’t sure.  
  
Jonathan’s large, black eyes met hers. They were kind of unnerving, but also kind of comforting, in a way. Without judgment or expectation, just observing, absorbing the scattered light from the things around him. There was something almost companionable to his silence, Izzy thought. Something that made her want to tell him things, things she didn’t like to tell anyone else. “And Patroclus?”  
  
Izzy shrugged, brushing her long, perfect hair off her shoulder. “I don’t know yet. I guess you’ll have to stick around to find out.” She took his hand, and it was cool, almost cold. “Come on, let’s go get lunch.”  
  


  
  
  
“ _Jonathan_.” Valentine’s voice filtered through his consciousness. He was kneeling behind Jonathan’s back, his shadow stretching over him like a tree providing shade.  
  
Jonathan did not respond. Could not respond. All volition had left him; it seemed all he could do was lie on the grated floor, staring unseeingly at the rusted walls. The gentle tickle of tears was light on his face, and he could feel himself sniffling, like a child. He did not care if his father saw him like this, and he barely cared that his father didn’t care, either.  
  
_Isabelle_. The feeling of _loss_ throbbed in his chest stronger than any of his physical wounds.  
  
“Jonathan,” Valentine said again. His voice was more gentle, but had an edge to it that could not be ignored. “It was for the best. You know as well as I do that eventually you would have hurt her.”  
  
Jonathan did not bother to deny it. Izzy had shared in the pain he’d brought her. His death would have come either by the Clave’s hand or his father’s. He had brought nothing upon the Lightwoods but pain, destruction, and death. The Morgenstern curse. Izzy would soon lose three brothers to that curse—himself, Max, and eventually Jace.  
  
“That’s not true!”  
  
_Max_. Jonathan had forgotten he was here. He’d seen—the Angel only knew what he’d seen. Some tired, exhausted protective flame rose in Jonathan’s chest. He would not allow Valentine to hurt Max. He couldn’t. He was the only part of Izzy’s life that he could protect.  
  
Jonathan could just barely see him out of the corner of his eye, pale-faced and afraid, but with childish hate and conviction blazing in his eyes. Hate and fear beyond his years. “You’re the one who’s hurt my family,” Max said, and while his voice wavered, his conviction did not.  
  
“Take him back to his cell,” Valentine said.  
  
“No,” Jonathan gasped. With effort, he tried to force his body to roll over, to face Valentine, but he could not. His muscles felt as if they had been turned to water, the skin of his back so tender it felt as if it were on fire. His vision swam, and nightmarish blur of red and light. “Don’t hurt him.”  
  
Valentine gave a genteel smile. “Of course not. Young Max has spirit. It would be a shame if it were destroyed.” The sound of a shift of clothing, and when he spoke his voice sounded closer to Jonathan’s ear, the serpent dripping poison into his ear. “He has no stake in this, does he? Wouldn’t it be best if he were returned home to his family?”  
  
Jonathan nodded, a sharp pang in his chest at the thought of _home_. “Yes,” he rasped out. “Please.”  
  
A pause, torturous. Was he considering it? No—there must be some catch, there was always a price. Valentine never gave freely.  
  
“You know what I want,” Valentine said.  
  
The fear and terror of the past days swelled up in his chest and Jonathan choked back a sob. “I _told_ you, I don’t—“  
  
“And I believe you.” Valentine’s tone was smooth. Comforting. After days of begging, of pleading _I don’t know_ over and over only to be hurt again, the words were unbearably sweet. “Bring him to me. Swear a blood oath you will bring Jace to me, and I will swear to release Max.”  
  
Traitorous, fragile hope leapt up in Jonathan’s chest, so warm and bright he could scarcely bear to shove it back down. It seemed all the world had collapsed down into this moment, the promise of achieving just one, one good thing before he died. A blood oath was absolutely binding—Valentine could no more weasel out of it than Jonathan could wriggle free from death.  
  
Jonathan searched for the words to refuse, but they would not come.  
  
Valentine’s hand gripped his shoulder, painfully tight. “Will you swear?”  
  
“Yes,” Jonathan gasped, and it felt like a confession. “Yes, I will swear.”  
  
Valentine turned to one of his soldiers. “Bring in the warlock. Now.”  
  
Moments passed, in what could have been hours or seconds. Then the door creaked open and heavy footsteps sounded on the grate; the sound of a body falling, and a muffled cry.  
  
“The oath,” Valentine said. Rough hands grabbed Jonathan’s shoulder and re-arranged him like a sackcloth doll. He took a knife from his belt and cut a gash in his own palm, then grasped Jonathan’s and cut a second line. A thrill of terror shot through Jonathan and for a second he struggled to pull away, but Valentine wouldn’t let him go.  
  
“Valentine Morgenstern,” said a woman’s voice. It shook, as if with tears, or absolute terror. “Do you swear to return Max Lightwood to his family upon the safe delivery of Jace Wayland to you?”  
  
Valentine’s eyes blazed with feverish intensity. “I swear.”  
  
“And do you, Jonathan Morgenstern, swear to deliver Jace Wayland to Valentine Morgenstern within the week, in return for the safe return of Max Lightwood to his family?”  
  
Jonathan fought back against the darkness pulling at him, but he could scarcely keep his eyes open. “I...” his voice stuck in his throat, as if holding him back. “I swear.”  
  
Heat seared over his forearm and Valentine gripped his hand with crushing strength. A single, panicked thought _of what did I do_ reared in Jonathan’s mind before a wave of darkness overtook him. He felt himself sink back to the grated floor, and then nothing at all.  
  
  
  
  
  
Izzy woke to the fresh, strong smell of Turkish coffee. Out of habit, she reached out for the bottle of poultice Brother Zachariah had given her that sat on her bedside table, only to find it missing. The pain in her _parabatai_ rune was similarly absent, like a missing hole in the patchwork of her life. In a way, the pain had been a comfort, each throb a reminder Jonathan’s heart was still beating. But last night in the shaky, sick light of her vanity mirror she’d seen the blank, perfectly tan expanse on her shoulderblade where her rune should be, and she’d known.  
  
And so she’d fled. Away from the Institute, away from New York. Away from her family and Clary and all the problems and prying eyes that would ask “what’s wrong” and “are you okay” and all the other words she hated to hear when they weren’t from her _parabatai_ ’s mouth. She’d always been Jonathan’s protector, so he was the only one allowed to see her weakness, to see her at anything but her best.  
  
She hadn’t been able to protect him. So she turned to the only other person who she could bear to see her like this, puffy eyed and crying and unable to do anything but rage, rage at Valentine and the world and her own helplessness.  
  
Meliorn gestured to a basket of fruits on the woven table by the couch. “Breakfast?”  
  
He looked impeccable, as always, shining hair wound up into an elaborate knot, eyes accented sharply with the dark purples and blues he favored. Even his clothes, flowing and comfortable, were without a wrinkle. It was as if he hadn’t been up at 4 AM, watching with the sorrowful, immortal eyes as she’d wept for her dead brother.  
  
Time passed differently in Faerie.  
  
Izzy didn’t feel like she’d rested more than two hours. Still, it was strangely comforting to know that even if the bedrock of her entire life had cracked and crumbled, Meliorn still looked incredible.  
  
“No thanks. I’m good.”  
  
Meliorn offered a slim, wry smile. “I’ll waive the eternal servitude.”  
  
Ordinarily Izzy would laugh, tease him that the only servitude he was getting was entirely contingent on his performance in bed, but she could hardly force a smile. “I’m not hungry.”  
  
“Very well.” Meliorn took a few smooth, dancing steps to her side, and touched her arm. “You have that faraway look in your eyes again, Isabelle. The look that says you have left me already, and have yet to tell me so.”  
  
Izzy buried her head in her hands, feeling her hair fall in lank strands around her knuckles. “I don’t want to. I can’t. But I have to.”  
  
Max, Jace, Simon, the entire war. Alec, who would be worried to the point of viciousness if he were to notice her absence. Even Clary. All those people to relied on her. All those people to disappoint.  
  
All those people to, eventually, watch die.  
  
She’d always planned to die in battle, and obviously Jonathan would die at her side. It hadn’t been a conscious thought, but more an intuition, a knowledge without knowing. They would be buried in the Lightwood family tomb, side by side, and wherever a soul went after that, they would go there together too.  
  
None of that would happen now. If there even was a burial, or a body, Jonathan’s grave would be in the Cemetery of the Disgraced. He was gone, and Izzy would be left to visit his grave, to clean up whatever of his things the Inquisitor hadn’t confiscated, to do all the things their surviving family was supposed to do in their wake.  
  
To live life as half their soul.  
  
Meliorn watched her carefully, perched lightly on the arm of the sofa where she’d slept. He’d offered the bed, but she’d refused. “Isabelle,” he said lightly. “Please eat.”  
  
“I can’t,” Izzy said again.  
  
He gave a sigh soft as a butterfly’s wings. “When Achilles lost Patroclus, he subsisted off the nectar of the gods, and he forgot his humanity. Only when he met with Priam and broke bread to eat did he remember his human nature.”  
  
Izzy looked up. “I’m pretty sure he did a fuck ton of killing and dragged Hector’s body around on his chariot first.”  
  
Meliorn looked annoyed. “That was all covered under ‘ _forgot his humanity._ ’”  
  
“Yeah, well, killing and chariot-dragging first. Eat later.”  
  
Meliorn touched his brow in desperation. “Very well. Forget Achilles. Kill as many people as your dread heart desires, but please have a plum before you pass out or throw up on my carpets.”  
  
Izzy’s lips curled upwards, despite herself. Wordlessly, she reached out into the wicker basket and picked up a plum. It was fat and plump and burst flavor over her tongue and juices into her hands. As she chewed, she said, “I’m holding you to the waiver of eternal servitude.”  
  
He rolled his eyes. “You ate my LeanCuisine once. I think a little plum won’t hurt your chances.”  
  
“Yeah, but that wasn’t grown here, maybe it doesn’t count. This plum? Does.” Izzy thought back to the frozen dinner in question. “Also, that lasagna was disgusting.”  
  
Knowing Meliorn, it was probably vegan. Izzy didn’t even know they made vegan LeanCuisine. Meliorn convinced her to eat an orange and a strange-looking fruit that she thought was probably native to Faerie, which tasted unsettlingly like chicken.  
  
She thanked him and he accepted her thanks, as was Fae custom. For a society that could often feel like a maze of riddles and half-truths, Seelies could often be remarkably straightforward. Shadowhunters never understood this, only having heard the old stories and legends and never having met a denizen of Faerie. In Izzy’s experience, they often wore their hearts on their woven sleeves.  
  
“One more thing,” she said, as he bade her goodbye and led her towards the portal back to New York. “The bell you gave me—audience with the Queen. Can she—can she raise someone from the dead?”  
  
Meliorn’s dark eyes were sorrowful. “No, Isabelle,” he said, and when he spoke she could almost hear his age in his voice, the weight of every expired year. “Whether shadowhunter, warlock, wolf, night child, or fae, death binds us all.”  
  
Izzy bit her lip. Nodded. “Of course,” she said, briskly. “Thank you again for your hospitality. I shall look forward to returning the favor.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“Hey so uh....guys? Anyone out there? No? God, I’m probably talking to myself. I fill the silence by talking when I’m nervous, at least that’s what my therapist says, and I’m kind of always nervous, especially when people kidnap me and hold me captive in a cage...thing. Or at least I think this is a cage? To tell you the truth, I can’t really tell. I’m definitely talking to myself now. Okay! But like, if you’re out there and listening, could you maybe just like...I don’t know, let me call my mom for the ransom or whatever? Bubbie Helen is gonna be so pissed I got myself kidnapped...oh man. She always said, _Simon, you have to pay attention! Get your nose out of your gadgets!_ Well now I’ve really done it, and I wasn’t even on my phone, I was sneezing. Bubbie Helen never said anything about sneezing. Or maybe she did and I wasn’t listening—“  
  
Raphael resisted the powerful urge to reach into the cell and break the mundane’s neck. “Will you _please_ shut up?”  
  
“Woah!” said the mundane, jumping back. “I really thought I was alone out here—where are you? I can’t see you. Are you a ninja?”  
  
_Jesus Christ, have mercy_. Raphael took a deep, calming breath, then stepped out of the shadows into the artificial lamplight. “Look, don’t worry,” he said, putting the slightest hint of an _incanto_ behind his words. “We’re not here to hurt you. As long as your friends uphold their end of the bargain, you’ll be fine.”  
  
Whatever motor that drove the mundane’s mouth seemed resistant to his efforts. “Holy shit, am I a hostage? For what? Like, no offense or anything, but I literally cannot think of anyone except my mom, Becky, or Clary who would do anything particularly useful to save my ass. Holy shit, are you blackmailing Clary?! For what? She’s an art student!”  
  
“Don’t worry,” Raphael said again, putting more force behind his words. “Everything will work out just fine.”  
  
The mundane gave him a nervous smile. “No offense, I kind of have at least one anxiety disorder, so like, the last time I managed to _not worry_ was when I was taking Xanax. But that like, made me break out into this weird rash, and that made me freak out and whatever, so I had to stop taking it, and wow you sure don’t need to know any of this information, but again I kind of talk a lot when I’m nervous and I really am nervous right now—“  
  
Raphael gave it up as hopeless, turning back towards the door. The mundane posed little threat of escaping—in fact, Raphael would have been shocked if he could stop talking long enough to devise such subtlety—nor did he seem to pose a threat to the Clan. Even if he had—the Clan had bigger, more internal threats to deal with.  
  
For Raphael to deal with.

  
“Watch him,” he told the guards by the door. “Gag him, if you must, but don’t hurt him. Or you answer to me.”  
  
The guards nodded their assent, one of them a bit grudgingly; Raphael fixed her with a gimlet stare and she wilted along with her partner, appropriately cowed. With a brusque gesture he opened the door, stepping swiftly through.  
  
“Wait, you’re going?” the mundane called. “Did I mention I’m real claustrophobic? Because I totally am and this is a really tight space and I’m kind of not loving it—no offense or anything—“  
  
Camille had better have a lot of answers—and good ones.  
  
  
  
  
Jia Penhallow looked up from the acting Inquisitor’s report to the opening door of her office. “Victor. Do you have Aline’s report?”  
  
Aldertree briefly made a face that suggested he had tasted something sour, still lingering in the doorway. This was uncharacteristically hesitant for him, and Jia felt her headache deepen. “Yes, madam Consul. Shall I summarize?”  
  
Jia looked from him to the Acting Inquisitor, a flaccid, uninspiring Fieldmarsh man who had about a quarter of Imogen’s wit and even less of her charm. She strongly suspected very little of the report she was currently reading was put together by the Acting Inquisitor, and was instead probably the work of Imogen’s protogee. Aldertree was ambitious, almost exhaustingly so, but none of them had gotten to where they were by being pleasant company. But he had a keen mind and the occasional sense of tact, or at least self-preservation, which most others seemed to lack. “Why not forward it to me? I’ll read it after this.”  
  
Aldertree’s pained expression twisted a bit more. “With respect, Consul, I think it might be best if I were to use my own words.”  
  
Jia held back a sigh with effort. Aline was...difficult to manage, to say the least, and with all that was going on the tension between them had nearly reached a snapping point. She refused to _listen_ , to consider even for a second that Jia’s years of experience might just outweigh her own.  
  
She waved him into the office and he stepped inside, taking the chair next to Fieldmarsh’s. “Very well. Please summarize.”  
  
“Aline protests the decision to place her command in review, and feels she would be more effective in her position if she were to be granted full command. She stressed that she is aware of the burdens and responsibilities of her position, and assures you she will do her utmost to uphold the Penhallow name.” Victor made a face that suggested one of his teeth was abscessing. “Additionally, she rejected Liam Wintermark’s proposal and registered her displeasure at the encouragement of the match.”  
  
Jia sighed. “That doesn’t sound like Aline.”  
  
“The original message was, ah, rather more emphatic.”  
  
Jia pushed down on her frustration with effort. Being a rebellious teenager when nearing age thirty was bad enough, but airing the family’s dirty laundry in front of whatever Clave representative was unlucky enough to get between them was worse. It was unprofessional, to start with, and she feared to think what addendums had been added to the ledgers in Aldertree’s head. “Thank you, Victor.”  
  
Victor inclined his head. “Ma’am.”  
  
“The Inquisitor’s condition is stable, but still dire,” Jia said. Aldertree had asked after her more than once, more than out of political duty. Imogen was not a sentimental woman, but out of the precious few people in her life, Victor may have been the closest. “The Silent Brothers continue to monitor her progress.”  
  
Aldertree nodded, though Jia could sense the disappointment he was hiding. “I hope to see her swift recovery.”  
  
Jia sent a significant look towards the acting Inquisitor, who was currently attendant to checking his emails rather than the matters at hand. “So do we all. Now, shall we? We have a war to fight, after all.”  
  
  
  
  
“Hi, Alec,” Izzy said with a bright smile. She was wearing a shockingly red dress and towering heels that looked spiky enough to kill a demon, if aimed right. Her makeup looked more pronounced than usual, not that Alec was any kind of expert, and she had a strange kind of spring to her step. “Did you sleep well?”  
  
“Uh, sure, thanks.” said Alec. This wasn’t how Izzy had been the past few days—tired, stressed, and angry. “You?”  
  
“Just fine, thanks.” Izzy graced him with another dazzling smile. “Have you seen Clary? We have a helpless mundane to rescue, after all.”  
  
“She’s been moping around the guest room.” It was true—she’d even refused coffee, which for her was tantamount to a complete mental breakdown. Not that Alec was keeping track, or anything. “I’ve been doing some reading on the Accords bylaws, and it looks like in this situation we can select a mediator—“  
  
“Have you eaten?” Izzy interrupted, as if he hadn’t even been talking. “I’m starving. If I don’t get something in the next fifteen minutes, I might eat Church.”  
  
Alec cracked a smile. “Okay, breakfast first. I’ll find Clary and we can talk.”  
  
He found Clary in the guest bedroom, looking tense and unhappy. She was wearing one of his favorite sweaters (thanks for asking, Izzy) and a pair of Izzy’s jeans, which fit her rather badly. As soon as she saw him in the doorway, she jolted off the bed.  
  
“Alec,” she said breathlessly. “Alec, the weirdest thing just happened.”  
  
Alec pushed down on the impulse to roll his eyes with effort—she’d probably discovered some new feature of the Institute. She’d woken half the hall a few days ago with jubilees of realizing that the toilet paper was self-replenishing. “In a second. Izzy’s getting breakfast and then we’re going to work on our Simon problem. Have you eaten?”  
  
“No,” Clary admitted. “Is Izzy okay? She said the potion or whatever from the Quiet Brothers was helping, but I wanted to make sure.”  
  
Alec frowned. He hadn’t thought of the Silent Brothers’ poultice that Izzy had been given, but maybe it accounted for her sudden shift in temperament. Suppressing the pain could have helped her sleep. “I’m not sure,” he said, a bit uneasily. “I don’t know. See what you think when we see her downstairs.”  
  
Clary’s expression turned very unimpressed. “Why don’t you just ask her? You’re her brother.”  
  
Guilt lanced through him and he glanced away to the impromptu sketching setup Clary had made out of a bunch of boxes and a few sheets of butcher paper. “Izzy...always thinks I’m lecturing her. I’m the one who follows the rules and she’s the one who pushes back against them. She...she resents it, even when I’m trying to help.”  
  
Clary looked a bit surprised at his honestly, and Alec felt the same. Since when did he open up to random mundanes about his problems? Still, her expression turned sympathetic. “You want me to ask so she doesn’t take it as a personal attack.”  
  
Alec nodded. Clary nodded back. To fill the growing awkward silence, she said, “Look, I get it. Sometimes Luke and I had to do that for each other with my mom. Just...don’t let her forget you care, okay? Even if she hates it, it’s worse than the alternative.”  
  
Alec swallowed. As much as he hated it, as much as he disliked to stand in a room with a mundane and ask her help with his problems, she was right. “I will.”  
  
“Okay,” she said, worry creasing her expression. “Alec, you don’t think they’re...hurting Simon, do you? I mean they’re vampires, and I mean—Simon’s O negative, they always wanted to get his blood during blood drives. He won’t be like, more tasty will he?”  
  
“Vampires aren’t animals,” Alec said, doing his best to sound comforting. “Unless they’re rogue vamps, they won’t feed at random. I’m sure Simon’s fine.”  
  
Unless they got tired of him talking, Alec thought. He was very careful not to say this out loud. “Come on. Izzy’s waiting.”  
  
  
  
  
Izzy didn’t go to breakfast.  
  
Her stomach was roiling; she could imagine the waves of gastric acid splashing hungrily on empty shores, the intestinal villae reaching out their tiny fingers to pick up nutrients that would not come. But she could not eat: she’d choked down the food Meliorn had given her, but that had been hours ago, and the sensation of satiation seemed as ephemeral as air.  
  
She touched the worn, pitted wood of the door and pushed it open on soundless hinges. Jonathan’s room full of light, the white curtains flung open to let the sun stream through the wrought windows. The white walls had been stripped of even the meager decorations by the Inquisitor, and all that remained was his sheets—in disarray—and a few stray socks strewn over the floor and the dresser.  
  
The room no longer smelled like him; it smelled of must and old book. Stripped down to its bones, white and silent. A few stray, blonde hairs on the pillow, the straggling socks, a pencil or two, was all that remained as her brother’s tombstone.  
  
The Inquisitor had taken him—boxed up his things, hauled him away to the Guard, sent him off as bait in a trap where no one but her was expected to come out of it alive. _For the sins of the father_ —but no, it wasn’t Valentine who had truly sinned against the self-appointed god that was Imogen Herondale. The Inquisitor hated the shame, the tarnish on the silver Herondale polish, the buzz of her son’s name on everyone’s lips as they spoke of revolution and dissent. How humiliating it must have been—how shameful, that her son rebelled against her iron rule.  
  
But Stephen was dead, martyred, so she punished Jonathan in her own rebellious son’s stead.  
  
Anger, pure and hot and bright, flared in her like the tip of a stele over her skin. She was a little girl again, arguing that it wasn’t _fair_ it wasn’t _true_ it wasn’t _right_ — But Maryse had shook her head and said, “It’s tradition.”  
  
She felt a child’s rage, pure and potent. The rage of a girl held back from the world, the rage of a boy who had seen too much of it. They had twined together until their rage was one, inseparable, until neither could tell where one ended and the other began.  
  
But rage, even as it blazed in the pyre of her chest, was no replacement for their soul.  
  
There was nothing of Jonathan left here, nothing but the skeletal remains of the shabby furniture. No human monument to say, _someone lived here._ _Someone mattered_. It was as if she’d dreamed him up, an imaginary friend, a trick of the mirror with which to pass the time whiled away indoors.  
  
Izzy turned, and shut the door behind her as she left.  
  
  
  
  
  
“Raphael,” Camille said, twisting her lips into something appropriately drol. He always looked so tiresomely moralizing, that Catholic head of his constantly spinning webs of guilt and sin. Even his accusing glare seemed like something out of a children’s Bible book. “Do come in. I was just starting on my appetizer.”  
  
Raphael’s scowl deepened. He was so easy to needle, too—such thin skin. An unreliable lieutenant, really, but at least she knew he wouldn’t get any notions of rebellion into his perfectly-coiffed head. Too straightforward, too obsessed with that imaginary heavenly life that he had to know wouldn’t come. Not for them, anyway. “I can see that.”  
  
Camille pushed up the boy’s chin from where his blonde head lolled on her chest. “I think he was the pizza delivery boy. Isn’t he precious? When I asked him what he did for fun he said _video games_ , whatever those are. Does he mean arcade games, those terrible things Magnus dragged me to in the eighties? I bet he inflicted those on you, too.”  
  
“Those aren’t video games,” Raphael said. “Those are arcade games.”  
  
Camille resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Forgive me, I’ve become unmoored in the centuries. Either way, I’m getting very tired of blondes.” She rifled through the boy’s hair. “Fake blondes, as the case seems to be. Is every man under a certain mortal age in this accursed city a bottle blonde? This is making me positively nostalgic for Istanbul.”  
  
Raphael was definitely getting nettled now; he did that very well. “I didn’t come here to talk about pizza deliverymen. We need to talk about the mundane. Blackmailing his mundie friends? We’re not exactly short on petty cash at the moment and now you’ve made us violate the Accords—“  
  
“The Accords,” Camille scoffed. “The _Accords_. Azazel take the Accords. Since when has a single shadowhunter ever respected us? It’s time we took something that will make them think twice.”  
  
“By kidnapping a mundane and holding him in the basement, like the monster under the bed in a fairy tale?” Raphael countered—always the hot-blooded Spaniard, that one. Was he a Spaniard? She couldn’t recall. “What use could he possibly be to us?”  
  
Camille smiled. “Don’t be so dull. I don’t mean the mundane.” She took a pensive nibble at the blonde boy’s neck; he was already getting cold. Too bad there were none of those newfangled microwaves that could warm up his veins. Or was it the arteries?  
  
“Camille,” said Raphael. He had to know she’d never answer if he asked outright, and that he couldn’t trick him with his flat-footed wiles into revealing her game. “Remember the Clan. Don’t put them in danger. We have lives to think of, not just the mundane, our own people.”  
  
She gave him an indulgent smile. So dull, so boring, so predictable, just like everything else in this miserable city, this miserable world. Someone needed to stir things up a bit. Someone needed to do something drastic, something bold. Why not her?  
  
“Of course, Raphael,” she said, and cut a line into a fresh artery (it was definitely the artery, she thought—Harvey had been so sure of it) in the pizza boy’s arm. It was a wonderful world, wasn’t it, where you could call a number on the phone and fresh food would arrive, right into your waiting arms? “When have I ever not?”  
  
  
  
  
“Clary,” Izzy beamed. Seconds later, her arms wrapped around her in a very tight, very exuberant hug. Clary, to her acute embarrassment, could feel her face heating. _Don’t think about her boobs, don’t think about her boobs, don’t think about her_ — “Don’t you worry. Simon is going to be just fine.”  
  
“Thanks, Izzy.” Over Izzy’s shoulder, Clary caught Alec’s eye. He definitely looked worried. “Are you okay? You seemed really stressed last night.”  
  
She’d been in the shower for hours, or at least the water in her room had been running. Clary had nearly gone in to see if she’d left it on by accident, but had been to embarrassed to knock on the door at 1 AM.  
  
Izzy’s expression flickered, and she let go of Clary’s shoulders. “I’m okay. Just, you know, upset about Jace and Max and...everyone else. Nothing special.”  
  
“Okay. You taking that....stuff the Quiet Brothers gave you?”  
  
Izzy’s perfect eyebrows lifted in amusement. “You mean the poultice the Silent Brothers gave me? Yes, of course I am. It’s been working just fine.” She sat down at a table, and indicated for Clary and Alec to follow suit, and pushed her bowl of cereal away. “About Simon. It should be fairly simple. The vampires at the du Mort broke the Accords. I say we find an in, break Simon out, and call it a successful mission.”  
  
Clary turned to Alec, who frowned. “But we don’t know who’s involved in Simon’s kidnapping,” he said. “If it’s only a faction, or someone pretending to represent the local clan, a lot of innocent vampires could die.”  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous, Alec,” Izzy snapped. “You heard the woman on the phone. This is a ransom, not some loner rogue vamp doing something stupid. They’re in violation of the Accords. We have every right to rescue Simon, and anyone who gets in our way is aiding and abetting.”  
  
Alec shook his head in intermingled confusion and frustration. “You’re—you’re the one who taught me this, Iz,” he said. “That what the Accords permit isn’t always the right thing. I did some reading last night, we can select an arbitrator from the downworld, someone to help negotiate Simon’s release. Surely someone at the du Mort is reasonable—“  
  
“And who’s going to be the arbitrator?” Izzy demanded. “We have until midnight, Alec. Unless you want to go around knocking on doors asking who’s willing to haggle with a bunch of kidnapping vampires, I don’t see how this plan is going to work.”  
  
“Why not Magnus Bane?” Clary interrupted, a bit hesitantly. “He’s the High Warlock of Brooklyn, or whatever, he’s got to have some kind of influence. And we could just pay him for his help, I have like...” she glanced down at her banking app where she’d been furtively checking it under the table. “Two hundred and fifty dollars?”  
  
It was actually two hundred and forty three and sixty-two cents, but she figured Magnus could round up as an apology for wiping her memory, or whatever.  
  
Alec gave her a sympathetic look. “Two-fifty probably isn’t going to cut it. But I agree with Clary. Talk to Magnus Bane, explain the situation, ask his services to arbitrate between us and the Manhattan clan. I mean, we don’t even _have_ the Mortal Cup, even if we wanted to hand it over.”  
  
“And we’re going to do this how? Just drop in during his office hours and ask him? And what if he refuses?” Izzy sounded annoyed, snappish, with an edge of something else lurking underneath. “We don’t have time to waste. Simon’s life is in danger. How would you feel if he died on our watch? He’s a mudane, not one of us. We owe him protection. We can’t risk his life on what-if’s and the charity of Magnus Bane.”  
  
Alec winced, glancing Clary’s way, and she made herself stay steadfast. “Simon wouldn’t want anyone hurt on his behalf,” she said, a bit carefully. This wasn’t the Izzy she knew—that she had known for about a week, anyway. “Religion, pacifism...all those are important to him.”  
  
_And me_ , she added silently. She wasn’t sure she liked this side of Isabelle—the _warrior_ that went with the _goddess_. Not a warrior—a soldier. A soldier who could fight and die and kill and...would she even blink? Clary wasn’t sure. She was an art student, for fuck’s sake. She hashed out these questions from behind an easel, not a sword.  
  
Izzy opened her mouth as if to say something, then seemed to decide not to, and closed it. “Very well,” she said, archly. Coldly. “It seems you’ve made up your mind. Alec, contact Magnus Bane, ask him for his help. But I’ll be preparing to assault the Du Mort. Even if the mundane wants to die, I’m not going to let him.”  
  
  
  
  
  
Jonathan awoke to the gentle sounds of the sea against the rusting hull of the _Morningstar_. Sunlight streaking in from the filthy window pierced his eyes and he squinted against the light. He’d grown so accustomed to the dingy light below decks that the sun seemed ferociously, perilously bright. Besides the sound of the water, it was silent, the walls white as bone. The rusting ribs of the ship were a mausoleum made of steel and salt.  
  
His whole body ached and his throat was still parched, but he was no longer on the verge of death, or what had felt like it. The last thing he remembered was the warlock who had officiated the blood oath setting him into a healing trance, the feeling of being pushed slowly beneath the water. He’d been so full of fear but now he felt nothing, nothing but the brittle ache of his healed bones. It was as if he’d used up all the emotion he’d stored up over the years and was left empty.  
  
With effort, Jonathan pushed himself up off the thin sailor’s cot, noting the clothes and weapons placed neatly at his feet. His body shouted in protest at every movement, but he felt whole again, reveling in the feeling of his bare feet on the cold, filthy metal floors. Being able to stand, support his own weight. Breathe without the feeling of stabbing in his lungs.  
  
Silently, he made his way to the door, trying the handle. It was locked; he could just faintly make out the sounds of murmuring voices outside.  
  
There was a bathroom—one of the nicer accommodations on the ship. Jonathan ducked his reflection in the dirty mirror and made for the shower, stripping off the rags of his clothes. It was rusty and filthy and by all standards disgusting, but to Jonathan it now seemed unbearably glamorous and he stepped inside gratefully, eager to be clean of sweat and grime and filth. The water was freezing cold and Jonathan shivered furiously, but the icy cold felt almost good on his skin. He longed to stay under the water longer, but his shivering was becoming more intense and he feared someone would come in and stop him. Water was precious on a ship of this size, and no doubt Valentine’s soldiers could think of a better use for it than wasting it on him.  
  
There was no towel, so Jonathan dripped his way back into the room, watching the sunlight tame the goosebumps raised on his skin, make the fine translucent hairs on his arms lie back down. Eventually he gave up and used the scratchy, frayed blanket on the cot as a towel, gritting his teeth as it raked over his oversensitive skin. Once he was nearly dry, he wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and inspected the weapons he’d been left.  
  
Two seraph blades, one heavy and one long. He ordinarily had the strength to wield them one-handed, and could use their superior reach and weight to lend range and strength to his blows. A stele, not the one Izzy had given him, but a stele nonetheless.  
  
The knife caught his eye and Jonathan reached out to touch the engraved stars on its blade with trembling fingers. It was _his_ knife, the Morgenstern dagger his father had given him, the same dagger he’d driven into his father’s heart. Lying on the cot it seemed to mock him, as if to say, _I can’t be killed._  
  
Jonathan turned away, pushing the thought away. All that mattered now was finding Jace, so that Max could live.  
  
The wet strands of his hair felt long between his fingers, so Jonathan took up the knife off the bed and went to the dirty mirror. It was fogged and spotted with age, but he was still shocked to see his own face. Pastel half-healed bruises mottled his skin and his face was sickly pale, eyes shadowed with dark circles. All the muscle and soft fat he’d built up over the years seemed to have shrunken to his bones, making his shoulders and face look harsh and angular, almost skeletal. The dye he put in his hair to darken it had washed out, returning it to its native, unnatural color, like white straw.  
  
With shaking hands, Jonathan lifted the knife and cut off chunks of wet hair, letting the metallic strands fall to the floor. It was short, almost shorn to the scalp at parts, rough and uneven as it had been in his childhood when he was first learning to cut his own hair with scissors, but he didn’t care to fix it. He wasn’t even sure he could.  
  
Jonathan turned away from the mirror and found the clothes laid out for him. They were simple and utilitarian, a black long-sleeved thermal top that was small enough to fit him snugly, and black fatigues that were too big. The belt was too large for his narrow hips, and as he struggled to punch a new hole in the leather with the tip of his knife, he noted with unease that the bones of his hip jutted out even more than normal.  
  
With the belt secure and his weapons holstered at his side, Jonathan felt much better—felt human again in soldier’s clothes. The boots were sturdy and almost comfortable, and though his strength was a shadow of what it had been, the strength of his purpose drove him on instead.  
  
_Find Jace. Save Max._  
  
He knocked on the door and a few moments later it creaked on rusted hinges. Two soldiers stood outside, hands on their weapons. One of them grabbed his arm, mostly superfluously, but Jonathan let her and allowed himself to be dragged along in silence.  
  
The sunlight at the surface was even brighter than before, but Jonathan had acclimated to the strain on his eyes. The heat of the sun was equally intense, the rough winds of the sea whipping at his hair and making him shiver. Valentine stood at the port side of the ship, smiling as he noticed them climbing topside. The warlock he’d captured stood at his side, her eyes cast down on the deck.  
  
“Ah, Jonathan,” he said, drawing near and clapping a hand on Jonathan’s shoulder. “I’ve had Dorthea here draw you a Portal to New York. Remember, you have a week to make sure young Max is delivered safe and sound.”  
  
Jonathan swallowed over the harsh lump rising in his throat. With effort, her forced himself to look into his father’s eyes, dark as his own. “I remember.”  
  
  
  
  
“I got it,” Alec announced, striding into his bedroom, where Clary and Izzy were waiting. He was holding a gilded piece of paper aloft, looking about as pleased with himself as Clary thought he’d ever looked. “It took a lot of bribery, more threatening than I want to admit, and maybe a bit of really weird uncomfortable flirting that I’ll take with me to the grave, but I got it.”  
  
Izzy gave him what Clary could best describe as a pity smile. She and Clary had been pouring over old schematics of the du Mort for hours, and Clary’s mind had started to wander. Definitely not to Izzy’s boobs, or how fast Clary’s mind had wandered to Izzy’s boobs. Definitely not there. “Got what?”  
  
“An invitation,” said Alec, with the closest thing an introvert could get to a flourish. “To Magnus Bane’s house party, addressed very dubiously to me, and my....” he squinted. “Plus two, I guess.”  
  
“Just for the record,” Clary said, “I’m not pretending to be your girlfriend.”  
  
“No, gross.” Alec had a strange jittery, almost manic air about him. “The party starts at eight, which gives me exactly four hours to decide what I’m going to wear. I mean, what I’m going to say to, to Magnus. I mean, Magnus Bane,” he repeated, with a very strange look on his face.  
  
Clary and Izzy exchanged looks.  
  
Clary had seen this exact same thing, except in Simon, so with a lot more words and a few more hasty reaches into his backpack for his inhaler. _Ohmygod Clary, I have like, a crush on this boy, if he’s straight please kill me. And if he says yes, please kill me. Also if I ever look him in the eyes or even mention him again, please kill me._  
  
Simon. She hadn’t even thought of what might happen if she couldn’t save him. If he died. It seemed impossible—they were ClaryandSimon, Fray and Lewis. Socially stunted lesbian and socially anxious gay guy. They were each others’ gay best friend, each other’s constant comfort. Life without Simon was...unimaginable.  
  
Unliveable.  
  
Izzy’s face was waxen, stiff and unmoving like clay. She seemed a mile away, eyes fixed on some unseen point. She looked...tired, almost, but she said she’d slept well and she’d been so bright and cheerful at breakfast. Maybe she was tired and annoyed of dealing with Clary and her mundane problems—she had a war to fight, after all, and three of her brothers were in mortal peril. Simon, and Clary—they couldn’t rank very high on the list of someone as important as Isabelle, could they?  
  
Clary tried to brush away her insecurities but they strayed like cobwebs, clinging to her skin. Too much, too much, too much. She didn’t even know if Isabelle was interested in girls, if she’d consider someone as awkward, as...mundane as Clary. Clary certainly didn’t have any specialty in exotic weapons, or really any weapons of any sort. She’d never be able to fight at Izzy’s side like Jonathan, or even antagonize her like Alec. She was just a mundane, and a burden, and god she missed her mom, missed her so much it hurt like a physical ache.  
  
Jocelyn had lied to her. About everything. And that hurt, too.  
  
Clary looked to Alec, no doubt living out his own insecurities on his own internal stage. She remembered how nervewracked Simon had been coming out to Elaine, to Rebecca, to Bubbie Helen. And they all prided themselves on being liberal and accepting and still, Simon had worried for weeks, months, prepared at least twenty speeches and rehearsed them in front of Clary, until one day they were sitting down to dinner at Simon’s house and he blurted out, “What’s up guys? I’m gay!” And Elaine and had laughed, and cried, and hugged Simon and told him how proud she was, and Bubbie Helen had nodded her approval and told him to bring home a nice Jewish boy.  
  
Alec couldn’t do that, Clary knew. She had barely met Robert and Maryse, but she had gotten the distinct impression that, nice as they had seemed, if Clary had given even the vaguest hint of being a threat to their perfect, _heterosexual_ children, they wouldn’t hesitate to throw her out on her ass.  
  
Coming out to Jocelyn hadn’t been an ordeal at all. Clary had joked about it once, testing the waters, and Jocelyn had given her a knowing look, kissed her on the forehead, and told her she was better off without men. The once-happy memory now seemed tarnished, dimmed by the truth. Had her mother said that because of Valentine? Had whatever happened to her made her so afraid that whatever boy Clary might bring home would come bearing the same cruel face?  
  
“Well,” said Isabelle, startling Clary out of her flighting thoughts. “If we’re going to attend a party, we better get dressed.”  
  
  
  
  
“The Clave doesn’t exactly have a massive naval fleet,” Aline said skeptically, looking over Sebastian’s shoulder at his report. “In fact, I think its fleet might extend to that sailing yacht Nadhia Iqubal’s family was so proud of buying.”  
  
“Well, it makes sense Valentine would want to hide where the Clave is weakest,” Sebastian said, reasonably. “And a large vessel would be able to house a lot of soldiers, in a place they can’t escape or betray him.”  
  
“And how’s he getting troops on and off?” Aline asked. “The warlock lead went nowhere, though I suppose we could have missed something. Valentine isn’t really known for working with downworlders, either. And as Ragnor Fell pointed out, who would be insane enough to work with him?”  
  
Sebastian looked wounded. “I don’t know. I’m modeling a projected path based on disturbances at sea recorded by mundane fisheries and coast guards. It’s very complex, you know, the datasets I have are absolutely massive.”  
  
Aline gave him a fond smile. “Okay. I won’t bother your math with the complexities of reason or logic.”  
  
Sebastian muttered something rude and took another sip of his tea. “How did the call with the Consul go?”  
  
Aline groaned and dropped herself into an armchair, the throbbing ache between her temples intensifying suddenly. “Bad. I think she hates me, honestly. The family disappointment, and all that. Got on my case to treat Aldertree with respect, as if the little weasel has treated anyone with respect in his entire lifetime. You know, I heard he got someone expelled at the Academy. Fucking prick.”  
  
Sebastian made a non-committal noise. “Aunt Elodie likes him.”  
  
“Aunt Elodie likes anything that could make me a proper husband.” Aline groaned again. “Which, gross.”  
  
Sebastian looked at her wryly over the top of his laptop screen. “I should think there are many worse husbands out there than Victor Aldertree. Starting with the acting Inquisitor Fieldmarsh.”  
  
Aline mimed gagging and Sebastian laughed, looking impishly delighted. “The problem with Aldertree isn’t even his repulsive personality, or the fact he’d only be marrying me for power. It’s that he’s not a lady.”  
  
Sebastian raised his eyebrows. “So if he were of a different gender, he’d be an acceptable spouse?”  
  
Aline rolled her eyes. “Yeah, okay, then the problem would be his repulsive personality and the fact he’d only be marrying me for power.”  
  
Sebastian’s expression sobered. His voice was gentle when he asked, “Have you considered telling the Consul? The truth, I mean?”  
  
“That I’m one whole lesbian?” Aline snorted, feeling a familiar, empty ache in her chest. “Do I look like I have a death wish?”  
  
Sebastian frowned in sympathy. “You are her only daughter. Even if she didn’t want to accept you, she has no choice if she wants the Penhallow name to continue.”  
  
Aline sighed. It was the age-old conversation they’d had so many times, Sebastian with his gentle encouragement and Aline with her cynicism. Or rather, her realism. Jia had made her expectations of Aline no secret, and finding a suitable husband from a suitably powerful family was at the top of a very, very long list.  
  
_You’ll understand some day, when you’re Consul,_ her mother would say. _It’s not what your heart wants, but you bear it. For the good of the Clave._  
  
And her mother did bear it. She bore Aline’s father’s death, the death of Sebastian’s parents, two of her closest friends. The loss of countless others, to demons, to the Circle, to the war against Valentine. If Aline were to die tomorrow, would her mother simply bear that, too?  
  
“Maybe,” she lied, as she always did. “When the war is over. Last thing she needs now is a heart attack. That would make Fieldmarsh acting Consul, and I know for a fact she’d haunt me beyond the grave if I made that happen.”  
  
Sebastian cracked a smile, not entirely fooled by her humor. “I dread the thought.”  
  


  
  
  
When her mother had taught her to do makeup, Izzy had been eleven. By that point, she and Jonathan were inseparable, much to her parents’ chagrin. But there was nothing they could do—she and Jonathan both were capable of incredible tantrums. Izzy, all hot fury and childish hatred, Jonathan cold and hard as ice. She’d always marveled at how even at a young age he could strike fear into the adults, make them take a step back, glance away, unsettled. At the time she’d assumed it was his superior age but now she knew it was that when they saw his small, hard, pointed face they saw his father’s mad passion risen spectral from the grave.  
  
He’d been ferocious back then, almost feral, capable of saying the most cutting things, things that would pierce even Jace’s thick skin. Izzy had loved it, of course, the black temper that could turn against anything or anyone at the drop of a pin—except her. With her he was quiet, shy at first, but he listened, and did not contradict. He learned to be her friend, and she his, and by the time they were sixteen she knew: he was to be her _parabatai_.  
  
Together, they would burn down the world.  
  
“This is a weapon,” Maryse had told her, as she taught Izzy how to use her steady hands to draw eyeliner like a bow. “A tool, like any other. Armor, if you wish it to be. Use it wisely, as you would any other tool of war.”  
  
Right now, makeup was her armor. With concealer she smudged over the dark circles under her eyes, with lipstick she painted a bright, deadly smile on her face. From the foundation and powder and shadow and contour emerged a portrait of the Isabelle in the mirror. Perfect, flawless Isabelle, who could go to Magnus Bane’s party and go to slay an entire building of vampires afterwards, if she needed to. Flawless Isabelle, who never cracked, never caved, never lost. Flawless Isabelle, with sky-high heels and perfect, symmetrical lined wings, whose hands never shook.  
  
Wherever Flawless Isabelle was right now, Izzy sure as hell could use her help.  
  
“Hey, uh, Izzy?” Clary’s panicked whisper came from her bathroom door. “Uh, this dress, it doesn’t really fit. Like, at all.”  
  
Izzy jumped off her vanity, grateful for the distraction. In a bound she was at the door, pushing it tentatively open.  
  
Clary stood slightly duck-footed in Izzy’s heels, looking a bit wobbly and cupping her hands very obstinately over her boobs. “You’re like, twenty cup sizes bigger than me,” she said, in a tormented whisper. “And have like, hips, and legs, and all those....body parts. And I? Don’t.”  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Izzy. “You’re just a size down from me. Once we find you something that fits, you’ll be...” she made a gesture that was supposed to communicate _va-va-voom_ , but probably just made her look a bit erratic. “I’ll go ask Lindsay if she has anything, she’s closer to your size. Stay here.”  
  
Before Clary could ask just where else she would go, Izzy whisked herself away. After promising Lindsay that yes, she would have her clothes dry cleaned, and yes, she would share where she got her best falsies, and no, no bodily fluids would be involved with her clothes at any point during the evening, she returned, dresses in hand.  
  
“All right,” she said, laying them out on her bed, one by one. “Choice A: boobs. Choice B: butt. Choice c: legs. Choice D: all of the above.”  
  
Clary wobbled out of the bathroom, looking bizarrely like a baby deer walking for the first time. Clearly, stilettos were not part of mundane physical education. She was still clutching her hands to her chest. “Is there a choice E: none of the above?”  
  
Izzy sighed, defeated. “I have a romper I ordered online that didn’t fit.”  
  
Clary nodded, looking relieved. “I’ll take choice E.”  
  
To Clary’s obvious relief, the romper fit, hugging her narrow shoulders and slender legs. With effort, Izzy coaxed her into a pair of suede over-the-knee boots that clung to her thighs and made her already coltish legs look even longer. Though the boots were maybe a size too big, the heel was sturdy and chunky enough that after a few minutes of tutoring Clary could clunk around in them without major incident.  
  
“Yep, right in there,” Izzy was saying, handing her the hilighter brush. “Right between your boobs. Yes, like that, perfect.” She gave Clary a bright smile, holding out her hands as if to say, _see? I told you so_. “Boobs!”  
  
“Boobs,” repeated Clary, a peculiar look on her face.  
  
They found Alec waiting for them outside Izzy’s door, and Izzy’s heart skipped a beat. He was wearing one of Jonathan’s dress shirts, the one Alec had worn to Pandemonium—of course he still had it. What else would he wear? All Alec owned was t-shirts.  
  
Izzy caught sight of her bold lips and confident smile in the mirror and beamed up at him. “Ready?” she asked, re-arranging her whip on her wrist.  
  
“Uh, sure,” said Alec, sounding not even a little bit ready at all.  
  
“Then let’s get to this party,” said Izzy. Weren’t parties, after all, where you went to forget your troubles?  
  
  
  
  
Jace stood beside Jocelyn, watching her apartment building go up in flames. The only residents, it seemed, had been her, Clary, and Dorthea, a warlock she’d befriended who had helped her evade Valentine all these years. Jocelyn’s jaw was clenched tight, her hands in fists at her sides.  
  
_He can’t find me_ , she’d said over and over, as she’d dragged him to the dusty garage and made him help her splash stinking gasoline over the upturned house. _He can’t find Clary._  
  
It wasn’t hate that drove her to hide from his father, to keep Jace under close watch like a dangerous animal, Jace realized. It was fear. Fear of what Valentine could do, to her and her daughter, to Jocelyn herself. To the world, the downworld, even the Clave itself. She was afraid, and Jocelyn struck Jace as a women who hated to be afraid.  
  
She was watching a chapter of her life come to and end. A peaceful, happier time, where there was no war, no Valentine, no threat to her and her daugher’s safety. It felt strange to think of the redhead mundane girl as his sister—Izzy had been the only sister he’d had, or needed. Would she want to be a shadowhunter, or would she see the merits of mundane life, like her mother?  
  
_Their_ mother, Jace corrected himself. It felt strange to call the cold, hard woman next to him his mother, but he supposed it was just as strange for her to think of him as a son.  
  
Watching the flames roar and the heat wash over him in scalding waves, he supposed a part of his life was coming to and end, too.  
  
Jocelyn watched the apartment burn until the mundane firemen came, roaring in on the loud, noisy firetruck. As men and women in yellow suits poured out of the truck, hoses in hand, only then did she turn away.  
  
“Come on, Jonathan,” she said, and she sounded bone-weary.  
  
Jace followed.  
  
  
  
  
“Oh no, oh no, oh no,” Sebastian whispered. Victor Aldertree was calling him again, and unfortunately for him, he wasn’t fooled by hanging up the call like most of the other high-ranking members of the Clave. In fact, the last time Sebastian had tried that, Aldertree had gone and pulled up the Institute security footage of him doing exactly that and sent it to him along with a rather sarcastically-worded message about awaiting Sebastian’s next availability. It had been terrifying, but it did pique Sebastian’s interest that he could manage even a basic technological task. Sebastian had once once had to explain to one of the Consul’s highest aids how to put her phone into silent mode. It had taken three hours.  
  
Squeezing his eyes shut and hoping for the best, Sebastian answered the call.  
  
“I asked for your report three hours ago,” Aldertree said, without any sort of preamble.  
  
Sebastian frowned. This, he could handle. “I can’t help that. The algorithm is still running, I can’t make it go any faster.”  
  
Aldertree gave him a very put-upon look. “Is analyzing fish really that difficult?”  
  
Sebastian crossed his arms over his chest, balancing his computer on his lap. “If you want to try to predict the path of a large vessel across the Atlantic ocean based on nothing but temperature and pH distributions taken from almost a thousand dataset dumps done by incompetent fishermen, be my guest.”  
  
Aldertree’s expression suggested that no, he really wouldn’t. “How is the Inquisitor Herondale?”  
  
Sebastian turned and checked the heartrate monitor across from him. He was no expert, but he’d pulled up its user guidebook mostly out of boredom and had been trying to read it. “I believe her vitals have improved slightly, but they tend to this time of day. It’s the afternoon they seem to go back down again.”  
  
Victor frowned. “Have you spoken to the medic?”  
  
“Not recently,” Sebastian admitted. “But I’m right here with the Inquisitor now, actually. She helps me work,” he explained. “I find her unspoken yet implicit disapproval of my incompetence motivating.”  
  
Aldertree, honest to the Angel, actually cracked a smile. Sebastian hadn’t thought it possible. “Yes, she is quite good at that.” As if catching his mistake, his expression straightened out. “I’m surprised they let you visit her, in her condition.”  
  
Sebastian shrugged, a bit self-consciously. “One of the medics says it can help coma patients if you talk to them, and I’m the one with the most free time to sit here with her while I work. I guess I’m hoping she’ll wake up and strangle me so I can’t keep bothering her with fish statistics.”  
  
“I’ll be rooting for her at a distance,” Victor said dryly. He gave a sigh that suggested he was far too busy to put up with Sebastian, yet did anyway. “Fine. Give me what you’ve got so far, and I’ll pass it on to the Consul now. But _don’t_ be late again,” he added ominously, but his heart didn’t appear to be in it.  
  
Sebastian smiled at the little victory. “We’ve been tracking the movements of known Circle operatives in the city,” he said. “And we found seven of them dead at the site of Jocelyn Fairchild’s Brooklyn flat, which had been razed to the ground with no victims. Preliminary analysis lifted from mundane servers suggests it was deliberate arson, which raises the question of who did it and why.”  
  
Aldertree raised an eyebrow. “I don’t see why Valentine gain from destroying the flat. Even if Fairchild had something he wanted, she was already on the run with the kidnapped Jace Herondale.”  
  
Sebastian tapped on his screen with his pen. “No bodies were found. Dorthea Rollins, a warlock, was reported dead at the scene, but no body was ever recovered. Assuming the lady’s warlock powers didn’t include her corpse growing legs and walking away, her remains should have been found in the fire along with the circle men who killed her.”  
  
“Maybe the mundanes missed it.”  
  
Sebastian gave him a reproving look. “Mundanes aren’t stupid. They comb the wreckage for casualties on arson sites. If Dorthea Rollins was there, they would have found her.”  
  
“So what, Valentine stole a warlock’s body?” Aldertree sounded skeptical. “I understand the man is an insane cultist, but that seems far-fetched even for him.”  
  
“Or she was never dead, and Valentine is using her to portal his soldiers in and out of New York,” Sebastian countered. “He wants something Jocelyn Fairchild has. We had assumed it was Jace Herondale, but Clary Fairchild, Jocelyn’s daughter, seems to believe Jocelyn was in possession of the Mortal Cup.”  
  
“And what does your sharp-tongued cousin think of all this?”  
  
Sebastian chose his words carefully, knowing his words would get back to the Consul, and elected to ignore the barb at Aline’s short temper. “Aline finds my theory somewhat far-fetched, as you do,” he admitted. “She’s busy coordinating the search for Jocelyn and Jace, as well as the tracking and capture of Circle members and the shoring up of the wards with help from the Spiral Labyrinth, and soon the delegate from Wrangel Island, once they arrive. Her work makes speculation possible.”  
  
Aldertree’s expression betrayed exactly none of his thoughts, which made Sebastian nervous. Still, the raw data would speak for itself—the initiatives Aline was coordinating were difficult, dangerous, and complex. Surely the Consul would be able to see her competence as acting head of the Institute. “And Starkweather?”  
  
Sebastian frowned. “Starkweather? Well, he’s aiding Aline in her duties—“  
  
The sound of vibration against wood was audible, and Victor picked up his phone. “We’ll talk later,” he said shortly, and then the call cut short.  
  
“Of course,” said Sebastian. “No need for a thank you, or a sorry, or anything like that.” To the Inquisitor’s still, pale face, he said, “I have no idea how you put up with him.”  
  
  
  


  
  
Jonathan stumbled out of the portal and was instantly assaulted by a hard wave of nausea. He caught himself on his hands and knees as he fell, feeling soft, dewey grass under his hands and knees. He felt ill and dizzy and a few seconds later vomited up nothing but thin, acidic bile.  
  
He looked around the idyllic suburb, fighting back the urge to vomit again. He’d dreamed of a place like this as a child, of a small house with crumbling front steps and maybe a swingset in the backyard. A mother and father who would put him on the bus to school and shout at him when he misbehaved. Maybe even a pet dog who’d bite and make him cry, but be his friend when he got older. He’d seen such a life on mundane television when he was six, at some faceless roadside motel his father had left him in. It had made him so deeply upset he’d cried.  
  
As if a mirage, a little park was in front of him. Despite the cold weather, two parents were out with their child, playing with the child’s tiny hands. The child was bundled up to an almost comical degree, fleeced in a jacket far too big for their tiny body. All three were smiling, the child laughing, high and sweet. The mother saw him and drew her child closer; Jonathan glanced away as if burnt.  
  
It was cold—in fact, it felt fairly freezing. Jonathan staggered to his feet, pulling out his stele and activating his glamour rune. A survey of his sensations revealed he was hungry—he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten.  
  
It didn’t matter. He’d come here because there was no way for him to get something of Jace’s from the Institute to track him with—the Clave would have him executed on the spot. Jocelyn could be an easier target. And if Jace was no longer with her, she would know where to find him.  
  
He started up the sidewalk, scanning the houses for a familiar set of winding steps that led up to Jocelyn’s apartment. He recalled an owl statue in a nearby neighbor’s yard, a yappy dog in the apartment across the street.  
  
He hit the street her building was on and immediately saw a plume of black, thick smoke.  
  
_Fuck_.  
  
He broke into a run, ignoring the screamed protest of his aching legs. His fears were instantly confirmed by the swarm of mundane police cars and fire trucks in front of the charred ruins where Jocelyn’s apartment had once been.  
  
Checking his glamour rune was intact and hoping none of the mundanes swarming the wreckage had the Sight, Jonathan ducked under the crime scene tape and headed around back. The smoke was thick and smelled of embers and burning chemicals, but it hardly bothered him. Smaller fires licked all around him, but he ignored them too.  
  
A pair of bodies caught his attention and he stopped. Neither were breathing. Jonathan pushed one of them aside with his foot to start up the back stairs—  
  
Someone grabbed the back of his shirt and yanked, pulling him off balance. Jonathan stumbled back, hand going to his blade.  
  
“Don’t,” said the woman beside him. She was with four other men, all holding blades, standing in a semicircle around him. “You killed our men, didn’t you?”  
  
Jonathan saw the Circle rune on her neck and connected the pieces. The Circle had been watching Jocelyn’s house, waiting for her to return, but she and Jace had killed them and set the apartment on fire so as not to be found. They would have their anti-tracking runes activated, of course, but he supposed it was a precaution more than anything.  
  
As if she knew they were being hunted.  
  
“I didn’t kill anyone,” Jonathan said.  
  
The woman grabbed his arms and Jonathan grabbed his seraph blade, striking out with his foot hard enough to make one of the man’s jaw crack. She tried to wrestle him back but he thrashed out of her grip with a snarl. His blade drove into her chest and it felt _good_ , to fight and kill without pretending to be anything more or anything less. What he was made for.  
  
Two of the remaining men charged him at once and Jonathan pulled his blade free, grabbing his knife off his belt and hurling it at the man drawing his crossbow. Jonathan surged forward and drove his blade into one charging man’s stomach, pulling it free with an unpleasant splatter of blood to catch the other man’s blow on his blade.  
  
“ _Please—_ “  
  
Jonathan drove his blade up into the man’s ribs, using all his strength to push through cartilage and bone. With a last burst of strength he wrenched his blade free and pulled himself upright, breathing hard, his heart hammering in his chest. He was still so weak, so clumsy, dizzy with the exertion, but they were dead and he was alive. Even if it was only temporary, he was alive.  
  
His mother’s house was burnt beyond recognition, but even then as he passed through Jonathan could see the echoes of her life: charred picture frames, books, a fridge. Furniture. Her life was mundane, no trappings of the shadowhunter’s life, no weapons.  
  
Nothing from her old life, from Valentine—from him. But what was there to keep? Baby clothes? Her hatred for her own child, the instant recognition of something _wrong_?  
  
He stumbled away, blindly, back down the stairs and down the broken sidewalk, away, seeing nothing. He’d once thought he’d put this behind him—his mother, his father, the unhappy accident of his birth itself. He’d cast aside poor little Jonathan Christopher, unloved, miserable, and monstrous, and assumed the skin of Jonathan, friend and _parabatai_. He’d anchored himself to that, wound himself around that little black rune so tight that even the strongest of life’s storms could not unstay him.  
  
But now that rune was gone, and Jonathan was unmoored, wandering blindly through the Brooklyn suburb. People were staring; the concrete seemed nightmarish, spinning—he needed their eyes off him. He needed to regain control. A deep breath, a broken nail pressed into his palm; with a lifetime of practice, the keel evened out.  
  
A café caught his eye and he started towards it. A well-dressed man with dark hair was chatting with a pretty waitress, his long black wool coat slung over a nearby chair. Jonathan started towards it, pulling out his stele and activating his glamour rune. The waitress was laughing at something the man said; Jonathan scooped up the coat under his arm and kept walking. As soon as he was around the corner, he slung the coat over his shoulders, huddling into the warmth.  
  
The pockets were a goldmine. A wallet, containing a lot of cards and about fifty bucks in cash, a set of car keys, which Jonathan tossed aside. A large, fancy cell phone—Jonathan picked out the SIM card ground it under his heel. A pack of nicotine patches, also discarded, and some strange, foul-smelling metal contraption with a plastic tank of clear liquid, dumped into the nearest trash can. A mint from a restaurant, which Jonathan unwrapped and put in his mouth. It was so sweet it made his eyes water, and he spit it back out.  
  
He made his way to the nearest bodega and picked up a handful of squishy, probably expired sandwiches, paying with a twenty dollar bill. The cashier looked bored, but managed to give him a strange look before handing him his change.  
  
He managed to choke down three sandwich halves and shoved the last one in the jacket pocket. He knew his next destination.  
  
Lucian Greymark.  
  
  
  
  
  
Raphael hung up the phone, pinching the bridge of his nose. Rosa had of course been delighted to have conversational company, even if she wasn’t entirely sure who the voice on the other end of the line was. Today she’d assigned him the role of their father, which ordinarily would be no particular burden—Raphael’s father had been loving and kind, and though he’d been heartbroken to see his only son go, he had never grown bitter towards Raphael even in his old age. But to reassure his youngest and only surviving sister with the words of their father that yes, he loved her, and yes, he would visit soon...today, it weighed on him.  
  
He was getting old.  
  
Not old, in the way that mundanes meant it: that their bones ached, that their memories faded, the growing certainty that the bright future promised in their youth was now in the past. Old in the way of the downworld. Stuck in their ways, yet unstuck.  
  
_Unmoored in the centuries_ , Camille had said. That’s what she always said, with that dry wave of a sharply-manicured hand, as if she could hardly be bothered to care.  
  
But being lost in time didn’t explain it. Being lost in time explained how Camille could blur the  lines between calling for takeout and ordering with UberEats (which, according to the younger vampires, she did. Often). Being lost in time didn’t explain how Raphael could watch her drain the life out of a living, human boy and feel...well, not much.  
  
Maybe a little queasy. She hadn’t taken any great pains to make a neat job of it, and only heaven knew what kind of foul bloodborne diseases the boy could have carried. But that was the recoil of his stomach, not his soul.  
  
Raphael wasn’t entirely convinced he still had his soul.  
  
He was being maudlin. Magnus had always said that was his greatest weakness, that if anything would compromise him, that would likely be it. But Magnus hadn’t forseen the illness that had befallen him, the malady of ambivalence. The malady that would damn him more surely than his vampirism: that, after all, had been the will of God.  
  
He thought of Rosa, enthroned at the Bingo table, introducing him to her excited friends as her friend from university, her boyfriend’s little brother, her cousin on her mother’s side. The sympathetic glances of the nurses, his hand on Rosa’s as he helped her unwrap her tamale. The soft, papery skin, the mottled skin, the sunken veins. He could smell it on her, age, decay, his senses telling him that her blood was thick and curdled, his revulsion at the very thought of drinking his little sister’s blood—  
  
God had made a monster of him. And who was Raphael to fight against God?  
  
  
  
  
  
Sebastian woke to the feeling of something being _wrong_.  
  
At first, he was quite sure it was because the last cup of tea he’d drank was both five hours ago and also microwaved. He’d fallen asleep in some awful position that had made his neck dreadfully sore, and his eyes felt gummy with sleep. Blinking a few times, he looked around the Infirmary, searching for the sense of disquiet.  
  
Nothing. Just the soft whir of his computer fan and the occasional sound of footsteps outside. There was a bit of a draft, to be expected from a building this old, though it made him shiver. He thought of Aline’s sweater, sitting in her office—maybe he could steal it.  
  
Blearily, Sebastian reached for his tea mug from the Inquisitor’s bedside. It still had the sad dregs of Earl Grey, or whatever passed for Earl Grey in America; Sebastian was starting to suspect that this country was one of the unheralded circles of hell. And it was quiet, almost too quiet, even for 5 AM in the Infirmary. It was almost like something was missing. Almost like—  
  
“ _Shit_.”  
  
Sebastian dropped the mug, rushing to the ventilator. The display was black, the steady beeping of the heartrate monitor was gone, the soft rush of air into the Inquisitor’s lungs halted. Fumbling with his phone, he pulled up the indicator to sound the emergency alarm, jabbing the button.  
  
It did nothing.  
  
“No no no _no_.” Sebastian jabbed at the phone again, his hands so shaky he nearly missed. His heart was hammering in his chest; he had to get her breathing again, he had to—  
  
The corner of his screen caught his eye and he realized: the network was down. No one was coming to help him.  
  
Sebastian wasn’t a medic—he didn’t know anything about comas, or life support, but he did know things about electronics. He dropped to his knees, wincing at the impact, and found the power cable. The machine was plugged into the wall, and the clock at the bedside plugged into the same outlet was working fine. He grabbed the front panel of the ventilator and pried at it, swearing as it refused to budge open. Then with an almighty creak it came free, revealing its contents.  
  
Sebastian scanned the circuitry quickly. Motherboard, capacitors, heat sinks. Nothing charred or blackened, no vital connections lost. He couldn’t possibly find another machine in time and figure out how to connect it, he had to find what made it fail, get it working again—  
  
The power supply caught his eye and just as he leaned in to examine it his phone rang.  
  
Sebastian swore, grabbing it and attempting to silence it; instead he jabbed the answer icon and was greeted with the face of the exact last person on earth he wanted to speak to.  
  
Victor Aldertree didn’t look particularly happy to see him, either. “I thought I made myself clear. Your report was due hours ago—“  
  
“For Raziel’s sake!” Sebastian cried, resisting the irrational urge to dash him against the wall with effort. He settled for dropping the phone with a clatter, reaching back into the machine’s innards. “Can you lay off my report? The Inquisitor’s life support shut off and there’s no one in the infirmary, I have to get it working again and I respectfully submit that your extremely tiring pencil pushing isn’t going to do the trick!”  
  
There was a pause. Then, “ _What_?”  
  
“Are you hard of hearing?” Sebastian snapped. “If you’d like to make yourself useful for a change, perhaps you’d like to look up the schematics or user guide for this model; if not, please stop with your infernal distraction.”  
  
Another pause and internally Sebastian dared him to make a fuss. Then, coolly, “Are you trained in CPR?”  
  
Sebastian let out an exclamation of frustration. “I work in data management. Why would I know CPR?”  
  
“I’ll teach you, then.” Aldertree was annoyingly calm—was he even taking this seriously? “What is the Inquisitor’s condition? Is she breathing?”  
  
Sebastian huffed. “At a _wild guess_ , I’d say given that she’s in a _coma_ , she’s probably _not_.”  
  
“Coma patients usually can breathe unassisted,” Aldertree told him, rather pedantically. “The use of a ventillator is typically only to ensure optimum oxygenation quality. You’ll have to observe her breathing cycle—if she’s not taking in enough oxygen, you’ll have to perform CPR to prevent death of cranial tissue.”  
  
Sebastian gave a whine of frustration. “I’m not a doctor, I’m a computer scientist—“  
  
“Forget the machine,” Victor snapped. “Before I became a _pencil pusher_ , as you so eloquently put it, I was a field medic. Now calm down and do as I say, and the Inquisitor might just make it out alive.”  
  
Sebastian paused, then picked up the phone off the floor, standing up and rushing to the Inquisitor’s bedside. She looked so small and frail lying there in the enormous white frame, so utterly unlike the looming, iron figure she was in life. “What do I do?”  
  
“First, check that she’s breathing. This can be done by opening her mouth, turning your cheek to feel for her breath, and look towards her chest to see if it is rising and falling.” As Sebastian scrambled to comply, Victor added, “And stay calm. Panicking will only make things worse.”  
  
“She’s breathing, but only barely,” Sebastian reported, once he’d taken off her mask and examined the tube in her mouth. “It’s...very shallow, not like normal breathing or sleep.”  
  
“Keep monitoring her breathing,” Victor ordered. “If anything changes, notify me immediately. Have you been trained to take a pulse?”  
  
“No,” Sebastian said.  
  
“We’ll take the radial pulse, then. Turn her hand with the palm upwards on a firm surface—the bed tray will do—and place your index and middle finger at the base of her thumb and move down to the groove of the wrist. Do you feel the pulse? It should be distinct from your own.”  
  
Sebastian closed his eyes, feeling the soft throb beneath his own. “Yes, I think so.”  
  
“Good. Start counting now, I’ll tell you when to stop.”  
  
For what felt like an eternity Sebastian waited, waited for the next stuttering beat to come, terrified it wouldn’t. At last Victor’s voice interrupted the dreadful silence. “You can stop now. How many beats?”  
  
“Eleven,” Sebastian said. “Or ten. I wasn’t sure.”  
  
“Okay. We may have to prepare her for CPR. Is her mouth, nose or throat obstructed by anything you can see?”  
  
Sebastian gently opened her mouth, apologizing profusely. “I don’t see anything,” he said.  
  
“Is her chest obstructed by equipment?”  
  
“No but—I think—I think that’s where her injuries are, I don’t know I didn’t really see, she’s been under a blanket—“  
  
Victor made a thoughtful noise. “I see. And there’s been no change in her breathing?”  
  
“I don’t think so,” Sebastian said. “It’s hard to tell, you know.”  
  
“Fine. Have you tried to sound the alarm?”  
  
“Of course I’ve tried sounding the alarm!” Sebastian snapped. “It’s not working, the network is down, or at least I’m not connecting to the server—really, did you think I didn’t try?”  
  
Victor didn’t sound particularly apologetic. “Many mundanes forget to call emergency services. I had to be sure.” A pause. “I’ll work on raising the alarm or finding someone to come to your aid. You can return to the ventilator if you like, but be sure to check every few moments to make sure the Inquisitor is breathing.”  
  
Sebastian didn’t have to be told twice. Power supply—heavy like a brick, and a bit loose. He pulled at it and it tumbled free—Sebastian nearly exclaimed with surprise.  
  
The wire had been cut.  
  
He needed solder, heat, something to reconnect it with, but he had nothing. Nothing but—  
  
Sebastian grabbed the ground and yanked at it, pulling a handful of copper free. In a few seconds he’d stripped it with his teeth. He fumbled with his pockets and drew out a lighter—a horrible relic from the days Alicante still insisted upon the use of candles in libraries that he’d kept mostly out of sentimentality (and one of Aline’s very brief mundane flings who had smoked). Yanking the cord from the socket, wrapped the loose copper around the two ends of the cable. With effort, he managed to light the lighter with shaky hands and held it to the wire, praying that the heat wouldn’t fry the delicate electronics in the casing—-  
  
“Are you checking her breathing?” Aldertree demanded, even more annoying than usual over Sebastian’s phone speakers.  
  
“One second!” Sebastian said, through gritted teeth. The wire was getting very hot and his fingers definitely were burnt, but he bore it. As soon as the copper was melted he let go of the lighter, letting it clatter unlit to the floor. The copper was cooling slowly, his shaking hands nearly pulling it apart.  
  
_“Sebastian—“_  
  
Sebastian dropped the wire and sucked in a huge breath; it held. Clumsy with haste, he reconnected the main power and stood up, suddenly dizzy. Bending over the bedside he immediately realized something was wrong—the Inquisitor’s breath was shallow, barely tickling his face—  
  
“She’s worse,” Sebastian said, grabbing his phone. “I may have gotten the machine working, but I’m not sure, and if I connect it and it shorts I’m not sure what to do—“  
  
“At this point, it’s your machine or CPR,” Victor said. “And to be frank, considering her condition, CPR will likely be lethal.”  
  
“And the alarm?”  
  
“I sent up a distress call to the medical wing,” Aldertree said. “Whether anyone answers is to be determined.” Before Sebastian could ask what he meant, he added, “Try the machine.”  
  
Turning and finding the main power button, Sebastian squeezed his eyes shut and pressed it.  
  
For a second, nothing. Then a soft beep, the weak flickering of the LCD. He hardly dared hope—it was doing _something_ , and something was better than nothing—  
  
A soft rush of air sounded in his ears and Sebastian was nearly overwhelmed with relief. “It’s working,” he said, to his phone. “It’s working.”  
  
Then, promptly, he fainted.  
  
  


 

  
  
When they reached the top floor of Magnus Bane’s apartment building, the doors to his loft were already open, spilling noise and light and even a spurious trail of glitter into the hall. It looked like a portal to another dimension, with shifting diaphanous light and pounding pop music with a haunting, otherworldly quality to it.  
  
Behind her, Alec was re-arranging the collar of his t-shirt, for the third time that minute. Izzy smacked him on the arm. “Go knock em’ dead, baby brother.”  
  
Alec glared, in a dour half-hearted way, as if he were currently being rained on. “This is a diplomatic mission, not a hookup.”  
  
“Who said the two were mutually exclusive?” Izzy pushed past him, starting for the door. “You know what they say. All great political movements started with an orgy.”  
  
“They don’t say that!” Alec called after her. “No one says that at all! Ever!”  
  
Clary gave him a sympathetic look, following Izzy to the tall, black doors. As she approached, the too-loud music seemed to soften, to a decibel level that didn’t make her skull want to split in two. The warlock version of meeting accessibility needs? Clary was curious. Either way, if Magnus’ magic could find a way to make her feet stop hurting so fucking badly in Izzy’s boots, she’d pay him all the money she had.  
  
Alec made a discrete gesture that looked very much like checking his breath behind his hand, then squared his shoulders and followed suit, entering with her. “Do you see him?” he asked, in an undertone, loud enough to be heard over the music.  
  
Clary scanned the crowd, a shimmering, undulating mass of bodies. Bodies of all descriptions, clothes of all sorts, bold and tacky, spiked and glittered. Either there was a serious 80s theme going on, or Magnus Bane entertained very interesting company.  
  
“I don’t,” she called back, apologetically. “Do you see Izzy? She disappeared.”  
  
Alec shook his head, looking somewhere between queasy and determined.  Clearly, Clary was not the only one who wasn’t a party animal. “You find Izzy, I’ll find Magnus.”  
  
Clary nodded. It wasn’t like Izzy to just leave them without a word, was it?  
  
Alec started off into the crowd, easy as you please, pushing through the mass of bodies as if they were made of butter. Clary squeezed her eyes shut and started after him, pushing and shoving and ducking as elbows flew at her head and buffeted her ribs. The forest of bodies was suffocating and hot and—surely Magnus was in some sort of violation of fire codes?  
  
She made it to the other side and instantly took a huge breath of air. Her hair was plastered to her sweaty skin, and Izzy’s boots felt slippery with sweat. A long table of shimmering drinks of all descriptions stood next to her, and Clary couldn’t help but stare at one that was a bright, effervescent blue.  
  
“I wouldn’t drink that,” Izzy’s voice said in her ear, and Clary jumped, nearly stumbling into the table. She looked a bit off, somehow, a little disoriented, but given how loud the music was, Clary imagined she looked a bit unbalanced too.  
  
“Izzy,” Clary gasped. “There you are. Alec’s looking for Magnus—“  
  
“It’s a favorite fae prank,” Izzy continued, as if she hadn’t heard. “The blue color is from the cobalt, which reacts with the Nern root to give transformative properties. Simple, but dangerous.”  
  
Clary stared. Her and Simon’s exposure to freshman chemistry had been quite enough for both of them, thank you very much. Let alone supernatural faerie chemistry. Just how many shades of genius was she? “You, uh, know a lot about chemistry.”  
  
Izzy smiled, red and bright. “Of course I do,” she said. “Didn’t I tell you? I specialized in demonic pathology.”  
  
“Oh,” said Clary, who was suddenly very aware of the low-brow status of art school. “Um, that’s very cool.”  
  
Internally she was kicking herself. _Get it together, Fray!_ Simon’s absence hit her in another wave—normally she’d grab him and run away to bemoan her own stupidity.  
  
Izzy was touching her bracelet absently, as if trying to keep her mind off something. A thought occurred to Clary, and as if on cue the music changed to a familiar sweet sound and the crowd let up an excited cry.  
  
_If I should stay // I would only be in your way_  
_So I’ll go, but I’ll think of you // every step of the way..._  
  
Summoning non-existent courage, Clary leaned in and said, “Do you want to dance?”  
  
Izzy looked surprised, and Clary’s heart clenched in her chest. She blinked very rapidly, eyelashes fluttering, then smiled, and Clary’s stomach did an Olympic routine of somersaults. “To Whitney Houston? Always.”  
  
  


 

  
  
Magnus Bane considered himself a man of impeccable self-control.  
  
He wasn’t boring—no, Magnus was anything but boring. He only had self-control when he wanted to, which was to say when it didn’t involve saying yes to a threesome, but he did definitely have it and moreover, he had _dignity_ , thank you very much, hard-won over the centuries. Which was to say: he didn’t pine and for Lilith’s sake he didn’t _gawk_ and—  
  
The shadowhunter boy was at his party.  
  
It hardly occurred to him that Alec ( _Alexander_ ) hadn’t been invited, and must have somehow charmed his way in; in fact, it hardly occurred to him to be angry at all. Instead, he felt bizarrely  self-conscious, Gatsby pining in all his gaudy overeagerness for Daisy, his loft no longer his home but suddenly Gatsby’s fabulous, enormous mansion. The sense of embarrassment was as scalding as if he’d only thrown the party in hopes Alexander would come, even if he hadn’t even been invited.  
  
(He’d always nursed a deep suspicion Fitzgerald had based at least parts of Gatsby on him, which was downright ungrateful after the fantastic orgasm Magnus had given him. It was also a bit maudlin, which just fit the poor depressed bastard perfectly).  
  
Alexander, for his part, seemed entirely unaware of his role as Daisy, and was looking a bit lost at the downworld party. He stood a good half a foot taller than everyone, glancing around in anxious confusion, as if looking for someone, like a very uncomfortable giraffe.  
  
Magnus ducked down just a second too late as Alexander caught his eye, eyes widening in recognition. Just as Magnus weighed his options on using a spell that might temporarily turn himself into a duck, Alec managed to push his way towards him, parting the rowdy crowd as if it were water.  
  
“Magnus!” Alexander called, sounding profoundly relieved. “Magnus—Magnus Bane.”  
  
Now that he’d said the name out loud, he seemed to loose steam, as if having neglected to think of anything else to say after it.  
  
“Oh, hello Alexander,” Magnus said, and immediately wished he could kick himself. He should have said anything else, like _I’m sorry, have I met you?_ or _At_ _your service, handsome yet incompatible stranger_. Anything but immediately revealing he remembered the shadowhunter’s name. “Are you...enjoying the drinks?”  
  
Alexander blinked, totally thrown. “The...drinks?” He caught up a moment later. “Oh, the drinks. Yes, yes, they’re um, fantastic. Really great.” He nodded, grimacing his embarrassment. “Could I...could I talk to you? About something? It’s important, very important.”  
  
Magnus frowned. He was quite sure he’d watched a porno that started out exactly this way not a week prior, albeit with less awkward dialogue. “Why yes, I suppose so. Shall we retire to a quieter repose?”  
  
That was a bit better, a bit smoother, though Magnus wasn’t sure why he was suddenly reverting back to the Victorian era. Lilith only knew how awful that century had been, anyways. War and colonization. A bit like modern times, really.  
  
“Yes,” Alexander said, with a rather peculiar expression on his face. He gestured vaguely to the party. “It’s...a bit loud.”  
  
It was actually deafening, and a miracle that Magnus could hear Alexander at all, but he did not point this out. Instead he turned and made for the hall, realizing as he passed a mirror that he was a little bit drunk and a lot less steady walking than he thought he was. Also, he had a tie around his head. When had that happened?  
  
“Alexander,” he said, once they’d reached his office and shut the door behind them. “I must apologize, but seeing as this is my party I am very drunk, and thus very unable to tell whether you are drunk, or whether this is a legitimate business call to the High Warlock of Brooklyn or a very elaborate booty call.”  
   
The shadowhunter boy squinted. “Uh, I’m not sure what a booty call is.”  
  
Azazel take him. Magnus ran a hand through is hair, dislodging a handful of glitter—how had that even gotten there?  
  
“Very well,” he said. “If you will excuse me for a moment, I am going to drink a truly noxious concoction that will make me _more_ sober, and after I solve whatever problem you find yourself with and you pay me handsomely, you will buy me a very expensive bottle of wine and I will drink it all myself to make up for the lost time.”  
  
Before Alexander could reply, Magnus turned on his heel and made for his work bench. It took him a while to find the potion, and he could imagine Ragnor making fun of him as he drank (truly awful), but after a few moments the unsteadiness faded and his head cleared, leaving the barest hint of a brewing hangover.  
  
Sober. At his own party. Horrible.  
  
“Magnus, I’m—“ Alec broke off, squared his shoulders. He was, Magnus noticed, very tall. “I apologize for bothering you again, but I’m afraid my Institute requires your services as the High Warlock. To mediate a dispute involving a mundane.”  
  
Magnus felt his reflexive sigh dissipate. “It’s not very often shadowhunters come to me for such a thing,” he commented, as neutrally as he could. “It’s all rather _slash and hack_ with your sort.”  
  
If Alexander at all caught the reference to vintage videogames, he gave no indication. “I understand that,” he said, so earnestly that for a moment Magnus felt unduly jaded for resenting it. “Please, let me explain. Vampires from a local Manhattan clan have taken a mundane under our protection hostage, and are demanding the Mortal Cup in exchange, by midnight tonight. We seek to negotiate the return of the hostage, but would like to select you as mediator as a...a show of good faith.”  
  
_Good faith._ That and ‘shadowhunter’ rarely went well together. “The Mortal Cup?” Magnus said instead. “That’s a strange demand. They may as well demand a unicorn.”  
  
There was a moment of slightly awkward silence as both he and Alexander recalled that a previous flavor of ‘shadowhunter extremist cult’ _du jour_ had exterminated the unicorns in an attempt to curb warlock powers.  
  
“We’re, um, not sure why either,” Alexander said, sidestepping around the silence. “But we’re not sure who among the clan is responsible, and quite sure that any attempt to remove the mundane from harm by force will result in. Well. A bloodbath.”  
  
“That is invariably correct,” said Magnus, a bit dryly. “Well, Alexander, I commend your efforts to be the knight champion of the Nephilim’s collective morals, but forgive me for pointing out that coming into my house—“ he checked his phone, “—twenty minutes before the midnight deadline is rather...unorthodox.”  
  
Some of the formal stiffness bled out of Alexander’s shoulders, and his erect posture seemed to sag a bit, his expression turning just slightly crestfallen. His hands unlocked from behind his back and wandered uncertainly to his sides, as if he didn’t know where to put them. “I—I know,” he said, looking very intensely at Magnus’ weighing scales. “I...to be honest, I’m not here on behalf of my Institute at all. They don’t even know—they’d never have let me come if they did. But I—I can’t just give up without at least _trying_ and there’s provision in the Accords—attacking the clan would be pointless—and...and it would be wrong, and I just hoped—“  
  
He broke off, clearly embarrassed by his outburst. “I understand if you cannot meet the request,” he said, more formally. He gave a polite bow of the head and looked to the door, suddenly looking less young, less callously idealistic. One step closer to ending up jaded and bitter, like Ragnor always accused Magnus of being. “Thank you for your time, High Warlock.”  
  
Ragnor. _Dot_.  
  
“Alexander,” Magnus said.  
  
Alexander paused, hand still on the door handle. The earnestness was back, as if those two syllables had single-handedly rekindled his hope—the vast innocence of youth.  
  
Magnus took a breath, let it out. “I will help you,” he said, as gracefully as he could. “But I make no promises on our success. And...I must ask you a favor in return.”  
  
Alexander’s expression suggested he’d promise Magnus the stars, if asked. “What favor?” he asked, almost breathlessly.  
  
Magnus halted. There was an non-negligible chance that the request would not go over well. “One of my close friends, Dorthea Rollins, was reported dead after an attack by the Circle. I...well, I’m not hopeful but...we retain some measure of hope the report could be in error, that she’s still alive. If you could...investigate this for us, I would consider my favor to you repaid.”  
  
To his credit, the boy did not immediately swear his agreement, instead pausing as if considering the potential peril of the request. If Dot was alive, and the Clave had lied—well, it would be unsavory business.  
  
The moment passed. Alexander met his eyes, steady and brown—he had such dark lashes. “I’ll find everything I can,” he promised. “You have my word.”  
  
Magnus exhaled, wishing briefly for a cocktail or two. “Very well then. Let us see what we can do for your mundane friend.”  
  
  
  
  
  
_And I...will always love you..._  
  
Very nervously, Clary put her hands on Izzy’s shoulders, and Izzy rolled her eyes and replaced them to her waist. Her red bandage dress had a fascinating texture and clung tight to her curved, muscular body—and holy shit, did she have muscle. Clary’s mind went instantly to Wonder Woman. “I didn’t know shadowhunters were up on their mudane pop music.”  
  
“They’re aren’t,” Izzy said, with her perfect smile. The lights had shifted with the music, hazy and orangey-pink, with a slight dust of something that looked like snowflakes drifting from the ceiling. “Just me. I made a transistor radio once as a kid, and listened to the mundane radio stations. Jonathan couldn’t even remember who Beyonce is.”  
  
_Bittersweet, memories_  
_That is all I’m taking with me_  
  
“That’s adorable,” said Clary, very nervously. They were swaying in time to the music, and Izzy was leading so Clary wouldn’t accidentally clomp on her toes, and her heart was fluttering in her chest like a butterfly on methamphetamines. The world had reduced itself down to Izzy’s eyes, warm and depthless and brown, and her long lashes, and the endless cascade of her curled hair and her rune conspicuously placed right over her— “Mom never liked me listening to the radio, but I’d sneak my ipod into my room late at night and listen when I thought she wouldn’t know. She definitely knew, but I guess she indulged my illusions of rebellion.”  
  
_So goodbye // Please don’t cry_  
_We both know I’m not what you need_  
  
Izzy laughed. They’d drifted close, and Clary was very sure she was staring, and quite possibly certain that Izzy was staring back, and Clary felt herself swallow. She could feel the warmth from Izzy’s arms around her waist, holding her gently, not awkwardly like Clary was clutching Izzy’s sides. She was just a bit taller with her heels and Clary could feel her face burning. Before she could stop herself, she was blurting out, “Hey, uh, would you mind if I like, um, kissed you?”  
  
Izzy’s perfect eyebrows raised and Clary’s stomach leapt into her throat. “You know, like, as fr—“  
  
Soft lips met her own and all thoughts melted out of Clary’s head. She felt warm and full of sunshine, like fireworks were going off in her chest, numbing her fingers and toes and making her whole body tingle, head to toe. The sax solo had started and just for a second she could believe the world was as soft and rose-tinted as if felt, that all her troubles had truly been mended away.  
  
She drew back first, rather abruptly, quite sure her face was redder than her hair. “Izzy, I—“ she broke off, swallowing her apologies, though she couldn’t push away the hot, prickly flush of self-consciousness. She had nothing to apologize for. Izzy had kissed her. _Izzy had kissed her._ “Are you okay?”  
  
_And I...will always love you..._  
  
“I’m fine,” Izzy said, though her eyes were full of shiny tears. She wiped at them quickly, hastily, blinking quickly. She gestured somewhere between waving Clary’s concerns away and fanning herself. “I’m fine—I’m sorry, it has nothing to do with you, I promise, I just—it’s a lot and I’m—it’s really hot in here.”  
  
“Izzy—“  
  
“I’m getting air,” Izzy said, then before Clary could react, broke away and rushed to the window. Clary ran after her, heart in her throat. If this was her fault—if she’d made unflappable Izzy uncomfortable—  
  
She could feel tears of her own prickling at her eyes and blinked them away, with effort. _Damn you, Whitney._ There was something about that song, she thought, as she dodged and apologized her way through the thickets of swaying couples and groups to the ceiling-to-floor window where she’d seen a flash of black and red—  
  
Hesitantly, Clary pushed aside the heavy glass doors. The night air hit her, fresh and sharp and cold and delicious. She shivered slightly, wishing for a jacket to put over the thin material of Izzy’s romper.  
  
Izzy was sitting on the balcony, back turned to the glass, shoulders trembling slightly. With a jolt, Clary realized she was crying.  
  
“Izzy,” Clary called softly, taking a tentative step towards her. “Izzy—I’m sorry, I—”  
  
Izzy looked up, and her eyes and nose were red, her makeup already starting to run. Clary felt wretched. “It’s not—not you. Don’t apologize.”  
  
Clary crept forward, sitting down gently a generous foot away from her. Hesitantly, she touched a hand to Izzy’s shoulder. “What’s wrong?” she asked, gently as she could. “Is it about your brothers?”  
  
Izzy let out a hiccupping sob, burying her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook and her hair fell in her face, clinging to her in black streaks. “It’s Jonathan,” she said at last, her voice coming out in a terrible whisper. “He’s—he’s gone.”  
  
Clary felt her breath catch in her chest. “Izzy—I’m so sorry.”  
  
“He’s dead, Clary,” Izzy said, and now that her hands were away from her face Clary could hear the torment in her voice, the heartbreak. “I know he is, I felt it. It was horrible, so horrible, it was like ripping in two. And I told myself I’d be strong, I _promised_ , but that song, that stupid _song_ was just so awful and all the stupid _feeling_ came up and by the Angel I couldn’t take it anymore—“  
  
“Oh, Izzy,” Clary said. She could feel tears of her own starting up, and didn’t bother to try to stop them. She put her arms around Izzy’s shoulders, held her close, held her like her mom would when she was inconsolable about her mundane problems. The thought of her mom was bittersweet, too. “I’m so sorry. Why...why didn’t you tell anyone?”  
  
Izzy exhaled, her breath hot on Clary’s shoulder. She was holding Clary back, clinging to her, so tightly it took Clary’s breath away. Quite literally.  “I—I didn’t know how,” she said, in a whisper. “I couldn’t. I didn’t want to—didn’t want to do _this_. Didn’t want to break down, fall to fucking pieces.” She shook her head into Clary’s shoulder, wretched. “And now I have.”  
  
“No you haven’t,” Clary protested. “Izzy, no one could bear that alone, telling no one. Breaking down like this—it’s fine. It’s normal. It’s...human.”  
  
Izzy didn’t reply, just gave small, hiccupping sobs. Clary rubbed at her back, overflowing with emotions of her own. Some of her fears melted away. The Nephilim weren’t cold, unfeeling, they were enormous repressed idiots. Alec, Izzy, their parents, the whole lot of them, all pretending they had no emotions until they came up and bit them in the ass. It was madness.  
  
“It’s okay to have feelings,” Clary said, as gently as she could. “You can’t just bottle them up forever, you’ve got to let them out somehow. And crying isn’t hurting anyone. And I mean, come on. Everyone cries at Whitney Houston. _Everyone_. See, I’m crying right now.”  
  
Izzy gave a hiccupping chuckle, looking up from Clary’s shoulder. Her hair was a mess, all in her face and sticking to her wet tears, and Clary carefully pushed it away from her eyes. “Thanks.” She pushed her hair back, pulling away, seeming to sober up a bit, though still sniffling. “I just...I didn’t want to do this. Break down. It is a weakness, and with the war—we don’t have time for this. And if Maryse ever saw—“ Izzy gave a shaky laugh. “I’m sorry. You don’t need to hear all this.”  
  
Clary took her hand. It was warm, and even now, steady. She could feel her thick callouses, a few scars. “No, keep going. I’ve got plenty of mom problems to match you with.”  
  
Like the fact her mom married angel Hitler, had a kid with him, and lied about all of it to Clary all her life. Stuff like that.  
  
Izzy shook her head, taking a deep breath, letting it out. “There’s not a lot of room in the Clave for emotion,” she said, her voice falling rather flat. “Especially...especially for women. We have a female Inquisitor and a female Consul, but the moment you shed a tear or are anything short of _perfect_ you’re just proof why it was all a mistake.”  
  
She said the word _perfect_ like it was a curse. Clary thought of Simon, of the knots he could get himself into about his music, about the horrible self-directed anger of missing a single note. He’d been violin first chair since his first year at orchestra, and it had made him so profoundly miserable that one day he’d quit, pawned his gorgeous, expensive violin off to the sketchiest pawn shop in the state, bought an electric guitar instead, and signed up for a therapist.  
  
Looking back, it had been one of the best days of his life.  
  
“You don’t need to be perfect,” Clary said, firmly as she could. “You’re amazing in so many more ways than I can imagine, and strong, and kind, and clever, and also super gorgeous, but you’re not perfect and you’re still all those things. And anyone who expects that of you....they don’t matter because they aren’t looking at all you are.”  
  
Izzy looked at her, and for a second Clary thought she’d overstepped, but then she gave a rueful smile. “Clary, that’s really—“  
  
“—gay?” suggested Clary.  
  
“Sweet,” Izzy said. “But also a bit ridiculous. But very sweet.”  
  
Izzy leaned in gave her a kiss on the cheek, making Clary’s whole body go hot and prickly for the second time that evening. Even with makeup running down her face and in the midst of a horrible personal loss, she was a _player_. Clary was so utterly, utterly out of her league. “I’m pretty hungry right now.”  
  
Clary gave a strangled little laugh. “Okay, um. I’m pretty sure Magnus Bane has a kitchen.”  
  
He had mentioned making soufflés, after all. Clary wasn’t sure if he had been serious about that or if he was just making fun of them, or making a Doctor Who reference. Either way, he definitely had to eat, right?  
  
“I’ll make you my mom’s pancakes,” Clary promised. “They’re like, the best thing in the whole world. Just wait, you’ll see what I mean.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
In the end, all Clary found in Magnus’ fridge was eggs, tomatoes, frozen waffles, and three bottles of Jagermeister in the freezer. They’d wandered around the labyrinthine apartment and, just as Clary was starting to get the impression there was some seriously freaky _Inception_ shit going on, the kitchen popped into existence like the Room of Requirement.  
  
“You know what, this is great,” said Izzy, through a very full mouth. She was shoveling it down as fast as Clary could make it, using a pair of Magnus’ chopsticks. She’d wiped off her running makeup with a piece of paper towel, and looked a lot more....normal sitting in Magnus’ kitchen with her sky-high heels off and her hair in a messy ponytail. “How do you make eggs taste so good?  
  
Clary gave her a shining smile. “They’re made with love. Also, my natural culinary genius.”  
  
Izzy cracked a smile, and Clary felt her heart soar at the sight. “Well, my compliments to the cook.”  
  
“The cook accepts your compliments,” Clary replied, a bit wryly. A thought occurred to her. “Where’s Alec? He went to go find Magnus, but I haven’t heard from him.”  
  
Izzy groaned. “Don’t mention him. I’m going to have to tell him he was right and I was wrong, and I _hate_ doing that.” She shook her head. “Honestly, I’m expecting to wake up from this pipe dream any second. Alec, breaking the rules? For Simon? It’s like the world is turned upside down.”  
  
“I think you can be forgiven, in the circumstance,” Clary said, setting down the last plate of eggs and tomato and turning the stove off, setting down the spatula on the edge of the plate on top of the paper towel. “You...are going to tell him, right?”  
  
Izzy looked down, chopsticks slowing on the way to her mouth. “I have to, I suppose. He deserves to know. I just...I don’t want everyone else to.”  
  
Some gremlin in the back of Clary’s head crowed, that Izzy felt more comfortable talking to her than her own brother. She pushed it away. “You should,” she said, gently. “He cares a lot about you. Even if he can be a total dick sometimes.”  
  
Izzy snorted into her eggs. “If you think he’s bad, wait until you meet the rest of shadowhunter kind. It’s awful. I considered becoming an Iron Sister to get away from it all—seriously.”  
  
Clary frowned. “An Iron Sister?”  
  
“They’re a devoted sisterhood who forge the weapons and steles we use,” Izzy explained, shoving more eggs into her mouth. “They require the utmost devotion and isolation from the rest of the Clave, and allow no men into their ranks. If that hadn’t meant leaving Jonathan behind, I would have done it. Seriously.”  
  
Clary grinned. “So, sword lesbians.”  
  
Izzy didn’t seem to get the reference. The mention of Jonathan had dampened her spirits again. “Pretty much.”  
  
“You cared a lot about him,” Clary said, a bit superfluously. “I mean, to give up an entire sisterhood of potential girlfriends. Girlfriends with swords. That’s like, a mortal sacrifice.”  
  
Izzy cracked another smile at her irreverence. “That’s actually the last line of the _parabatai_ oath. _Fratres ante conjugis_. Bros before hoes.”  
  
At that moment, Alec burst into the kitchen, looking borderline ecstatic—which was to say, not scowling. “Izzy, Clary,” he said breathlessly. “Magnus—Magnus agreed to help us save Simon. Clary, tell him about the phone call—quick, we don’t have much time—“ He broke off, as if seeing Izzy’s face for the first time. “Iz, what’s wrong?”  
  
Clary saw Izzy tense, as if for a confrontation. With a fleeting glance Clary’s way, she said, “Alec... it’s Jonathan.”  
  
All the exuberance slid off Alec’s face. He opened his mouth, shut it, then leaned down to pull her into a wordless embrace. With a bit of trepidation, Izzy stood up to return it, burying her head into Alec’s chest. Her eyes were dry.  
  
Magnus Bane appeared behind them, looking a strange combination of glamorous and hungover. Seeing Izzy and Alec hugging, and clearly deciding not to ask, he said, “Why are you eating my food?”  
  
Clary gave him a guilty smile. “Can, uh, the eggs be a present for helping my mom wipe my memories and brainwash me into thinking she’s wasn’t a terrorist?”  
  
“That is sassy, and rude, and more or less true,” Magnus replied. “Fine, have the entire carton.” He pulled up the chair Izzy had just vacated, snapping his fingers; instantly there was a wine glass full of what appeared to be straight orange juice in his hands. “But first, tell me everything you can remember about the vampire who called you. We need to know what we’re dealing with before we try to negotiate.”  
  
Clary tore her eyes away from Alec and Izzy. _Simon_. “I...I didn’t get a name,” she admitted, suddenly feeling very anxious about the whole proposition. “She just made a really awful pun about Simon dying to talk to me and told us she wanted the cup by midnight at some hotel, the Du Mort, I think? And then she hung up.”  
  
Magnus’ eyes widened, as if in recognition. He shook his head. “The Du Mort? There must be a mistake. I know the leaders of the Du Mort clan, they’re...” he broke off, pressing his lips together. “Raphael Santiago is the lieutenant of the Manhattan clan. He won’t be unreasonable.”  
  
Izzy sat down next to Clary, Alec hovering behind her. “You know the people involved?”  
  
“I consider Raphael a son,” Magnus said, with uncharacteristic graveness. “He’s a good man, Clary. He won’t let anything happen to your friend. If we speak to him, he should be able to deliver Simon unharmed.”  
  
Relief spread through Clary like a physical drug, so poignant she felt she might actually collapse. She did not dare to meet Izzy’s eyes. “Thank you,” she said, and she could feel tears welling up in her eyes, unbidden. “Thank you so much.”  
  
Magnus made a harrumphing noise. “You owe me my eggs back,” he said, picking up a piece with Izzy’s chopsticks and taking a bite. “And wine. Lots of wine.”  
  
  
  
  
  
Luke sighed, easing off his coat and hanging it up on a rack at the back of the Jade Wolf. It had been a long, long day, not at all helped by the fire at Jocelyn’s place. He’d felt that feeling before, staring up at the smoky sky and praying to whatever kind of god that might be listening that she was unharmed. The last time, it had been Valentine and Jonathan’s bones.  Though by that point he held no love for his former _parabatai_ , his heart had not been glad either. And the boy, Jonathan—  
  
This time he’d been lucky. No one had been harmed, save a few Circle soldiers who’d been dealt a swift and unmerciful death.  
  
Though neither Valentine nor Jonathan, if Jocelyn was correct, were dead. He couldn’t help but wonder who next might start springing from the grave.  
  
“Hey, Luke.” It was Maia, Gretel at her side. The two had become inseparable lately. Luke was starting to privately suspect there might be something to them. Good. After what both of them had been through, they deserved to find a love they could rely on. “Some guy’s asking for you. Front booth. Alaric doesn’t like him.”  
  
Alaric didn’t like much of anyone, not that Luke could particularly blame him, given the Jade Wolf’s usual clientele. “Okay. Tell him I’ll be out soon. I’m going to grab a bite to eat.”  
  
Gretel pulled a face that was even more sour than usual. “He’s real pushy. Won’t even try the dumplings. Weirdo.”  
  
Luke held down a sigh. “Shadowhunter?”  
  
“Can’t tell,” Maia said. “Doesn’t smell like much of anything, really. Should I call the rest of the pack from the back?”  
  
“No, it’s fine.” Luke didn’t need anyone put in danger for nothing. “You guys hang back here. I’ll deal with it.”  
  
Maia and Gretel gave him identical dubious looks, but didn’t argue further. Glancing through the Jade Wolf’s back doors’ windows, Luke could see Alaric and a few other of the wolves standing around the front booth Maia had indicated, looking very unfriendly.  
  
Luke pushed open the doors and Alaric and the rest of the pack turned to look at him in unison. He held out a hand, silently giving the command, _stay calm_. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” Luke said, as he rounded the last booth to stand in front of the stranger. “How can I help you?”  
  
The boy in the booth looked up and Luke’s stomach felt as if he’d missed a step walking down stairs, paired with an electric flash of recognition.  
  
His long nose and curved lips he’d inherited from his mother, but his dark eyes and bright silver hair were all his father’s. Luke had an intrusive memory of running his fingers through hair like that, kissing thin lips and tracing sharp cheekbones by moonlight. Of betrayal more bitter than the harsh, metallic taste left in his mouth after he’d transformed.  
  
“Jonathan,” he said.  
  
“You know this guy?” Alaric sounded shocked as he was confused. “We were just telling him to leave—“  
  
Luke held up a hand to cut him off, keeping his eyes trained on Jonathan, as if one wrong move might startle the boy into violence.  “Join the pack out back,” he said. To Alaric’s protest, he added, “That’s an order.”  
  
The pack would be furious to be relegated to the boathouse, but they were safer there.  
  
Jonathan watched them leave in silence, black eyes glassy and unreadable. It was pouring rain outside, cracks of thunder coming down like the strikes of battling angels. Occasionally the bright light forking across the windows illuminated Jonathan’s already pale face with electric light.  
  
“Where’s Jocelyn?” Jonathan asked.  
  
His voice wasn’t like his father’s—not hard and clear and commanding like Valentine’s. Instead he spoke softly, as if unaccustomed to speaking out loud, or afraid his voice might carry too far.  
  
Luke sat down at the booth across him, bracing his forearms on the table’s edge. Should the conversation take the wrong turn, he could flip it and use it as cover. “I don’t know,” Luke said simply. “She hasn’t talked to me in years.”  
  
Jonathan leaned forward over the table, one thin arm resting on the table. Luke noticed a bruise under one eye, and the ghosts of many more. His eyes were feverishly intense when he said, “I know that isn’t true. She told Clary to go to you when Valentine’s men came for her.”  
  
Luke’s stomach tightened, but he kept his calm with years of practice. The NYPD had its ups and downs, but learning to be a smooth talker was a definite bonus. “Jocelyn was a private woman. I must have been the only person she could think of.”  
  
Internally, his thoughts raced. How could Jonathan have known what Jocelyn told Clary? She’d told Magnus she’d found Jonathan Christopher, but he had no idea how long after her escape from Valentine’s attack that she’d found him. He pushed down on a dizzying wave of worry—if Jonathan had escaped her and was looking for her, what had happened—?  
  
“I know you know where to find her,” Jonathan said, and there it was, a glimpse of his father’s mad conviction. His voice shook, either with anger or something else, Luke couldn’t tell. “Tell me, or I’ll kill your entire pack. You know I could do it.”  
  
Luke swallowed, thinking of the old days. Of Jocelyn and Valentine side by side, his two loves laughing, of little Jonathan’s weight on his knee. How his tiny fists felt around Luke’s fingers, how he never cried, just stared up at the world with big black eyes. How Luke had loved him already, madly, thinking _this boy_ _is our future_. Spinning wild dreams of the day the world was free from the Clave’s weakening grasp, of what kind of shining future little Jonathan Christopher would live in at his parents’ side.  
  
Luke’s voice was heavy when he said, “You could try.”  
  
“No!” Jonathan shouted, jolting out of his seat. Something wild and fearful seemed to have taken hold of him; he was gripping the metal edge of the table hard enough that it had warped in his hands, though his eyes were filled with nothing but terror. “I can and I’ll—tell me where she is!”  
  
Jonathan wasn’t driven by anger or rage, Luke realized. He was desperate, and terrified, and probably alone. Did he know Valentine was using him, and see no other option?  
  
“Jonathan,” Luke said, keeping his voice as calm as he could. “Listen to me. Jocelyn never told me her plans. I’ve been looking for her, too.”  
  
“You’re lying,” Jonathan snarled, but doubt had begun to creep into his voice. “I know she told you. She loves you.”  
  
A pang throbbed deep in Luke’s chest, but he pushed it back down. She hadn’t told him, but she had her reasons. She was secretive, had always operated alone. Even at the Academy—  
  
He knew how manipulative Valentine could be. How he could thread his way through your mind, laying traps and planting thoughts and feelings to grow and take hold, bear venomous fruit. Make you see yourself as someone who must do his bidding. He’d believed it at a time, so much he’d taken the dagger Valentine had left him with in the woods. Had almost used it.  
  
Love, after all, had always been Valentine’s weapon of choice.  
  
_This boy is our future._ How fitting, then, that baby Jonathan Christopher had been warped into his father’s mold, to fit into his grand apocalyptic plan. The cycle played out in his mind—Oskar’s cruelty towards his own son, how Luke ( _Lucian_ ) had hated the old man, had been secretly glad at his death, so he could hurt Lucian’s _parabatai_ no more. How his father’s death had bent Valentine towards his extremes, unleashed years of stifled hate finding an attractive target.  
  
Now, it seemed, he’d turned that hereditary cruelty towards his own son.  
  
“I know you’re doing this for Valentine,” Luke said, standing up to meet Jonathan’s eye. His heart thudded dangerously in his chest—he felt as if he were walking a very thin line above a very large drop. “That you think you’re doing the right thing, or for the right reasons. But Jonathan, listen to me. Valentine doesn’t have all the answers. He never did—“  
  
“No, _you_ listen.” Jonathan’s eyes were wide, wild, like an animal startled by the thunder. He gripped the back of the booth, as if for stability. One hand was perilously close to the dagger at his hip; Luke forced his attention away. “You should be afraid of me. Jocelyn told you about my blood.”  
  
“Demon blood?” Luke noticed Jonathan nearly recoiled at the words. “It doesn’t make you anything you don’t choose to be.”  
  
He’d spent half a damn lifetime hating himself for things lycanthropy could make him do. He’d seen the same thing in countless other downworlders. Alaric, terrified he might hurt his girlfriend of five years. Gretel, torturing herself with the thought that she was one bad depressive episode from losing control. All false fears. If anyone should know that it was Luke, _Lucian_ , who had once believed that blood determined morality. Who had once believed in Valentine more than he’d believed in anything or anyone.  
  
If anyone could save Jonathan Christopher Morgenstern, it was him.  
  
“Jonathan, please,” Luke said, gently as he could. “Just stay here for the night. Have something to eat, tell me what’s going on and we can discuss your options. It’s too dark and too rainy to go anywhere. I promise you’ll be safe here.”  
  
Jonathan looked down at the worn tabletop, narrow nostrils flaring. He was deathly pale, and thin, and Luke wondered if he was hurt, sick—by the Angel he wanted to _help_ him, so badly it almost ached. As if by saving Jonathan he could salvage the bit of his father’s soul that had once been tied to Luke’s  own.  
  
“I don’t believe you,” Jonathan mumbled, though his heart didn’t seem to be in it.  
  
Luke sighed. “I know it may not mean anything to you, but I swear by the Angel.”  
  
Jonathan looked up, and for a moment Luke could see his mother in his narrow face, the curve of her eyelashes, the shape of her nose.  
  
“Yes, I can say the Angel’s name,” Luke said, to his unspoken question. “Even vampires can, once they learn how. We’re not cursed or damned, Jonathan, any more than a shadowhunter is. Every ensouled being is a child of heaven, under protection of the Angel. No amount of demon blood can change that.”  
  
“Under protection of the Angel,” Jonathan repeated. There was bitterness in his voice.  
  
“Let me help you, Jonathan,” Luke said. He thought again of baby Jonathan’s fingers curled around one of his own. A deep breath; one last, desperate saving throw. “I once thought of you as my son. Mourned you when I thought you were dead. Let us—let us have a second chance. To make things right.”  
  
Jonathan took out his dagger and for a moment Luke tensed, ready to dive out of the way, pull his own weapon if need be. But instead he laid it out on the table, pale fingers trailing on the hilt. Grey adamas, with white stars carved into the blade. A dagger more familiar than the back of Luke’s hand. “If you want to help me,” Jonathan said, his voice barely a trembling whisper, “Tell me where Jocelyn is.”  
  
Luke held out his hands as he’d been taught at the NYPD, looked Jonathan in his glossy, depthless eyes. Steady. “Give me the knife,” he said, his voice low.  
  
“Tell me!” Jonathan cried, brandishing the dagger, and too late Luke saw the black bands of a blood oath around his shaking hand. A crack of thunder and Jonathan lunged; Luke moved to disarm him but he was fast, far faster than should have been possible. He caught one thin wrist in his hand and shoved the boy back, reaching for the blade—  
  
Pain erupted in his shoulder like emergency flare and Luke grabbed reflexively at the wound as the blade tore free. Lightning illuminated Jonathan’s wide, terrified eyes and pale face in an electric light before it was extinguished; Luke felt a jerk on his neck as the thin gold chain around it broke.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Jonathan whispered, Jocelyn’s Fairchild ring clutched in his hand. “I’m sorry.”  
  
Before Luke could stop him he ran, stumbling out of the booth and towards the door. With a _thud_ and a tinkle of chimes he crashed through the Jade Wolf’s door, out into the inky darkness and the rain. Luke chased after him, searching the wet, ferocious blackness for any trace of him, ignoring the punishing pain in his shoulder, the rain stinging in his eyes.  
  
“Luke!” Maia’s voice, filled with tense anticipation. “Luke, what the hell happened?”  
  
The pain was intense, harsh enough that black spotted at the corners of his eyes. He’d borne worse, much worse, but the ache suffused his chest, where his heart should be. “Did you see him?” he asked. “Which way he went?”  
  
Maia and Gretel exchanged worried looks. “No, we didn’t. Luke, are you hurt?”  
  
“I’m fine.” His shoulder gave a powerful throb; he grit his teeth and pushed it aside. He took a few steps forward, into the rain and chaotic dark, and saw nothing. “I’m fine.”  
  
Nothing. Jonathan was gone.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay a few notes:
> 
> 1\. There should be two more chapters to round it out to 10.  
> 2\. I hopefully will actually write them.  
> 3\. I am not am EMT, I only took a first aid course do not follow anything I said.  
> 4\. Sorry for the fact that Jace lowkey just noped out of the story lmaoo he'll be back soon  
> 5\. There a lot of wild tone shifts and probably some glaring inconsistencies and honestly I barely edited this before posting  
> 6\. if you think you're pissed at jonathan now just fucking Wait
> 
> anyway thanks so much for reading and I hope yall enjoyed!! <33

**Author's Note:**

> "the arrows are beyond you" is from Samuel 1 and is how the biblical Jonathan tells David (the original parabatai pair) he's banished from Saul's kingdom. Also sorry if some of the writing is clunky, it is a WIP <33


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